Saving Zim: Epilogue
by dib07
Summary: Zim is wary of 'happiness' and life without missions. Coming to terms with his new family and illness, he doesn't know what purpose he should serve. A threat determines Irken existence, with the Enemy tempting him with a chance to regain redemption. Removing the chains that made him is the hardest of all. Drifting far beyond the edge, everything becomes uncertain on the other side.
1. Imperfection

**Saving Zim: Epilogue by Dib07**

 _ **Summary:**_

Zim is wary of 'happiness' and life without missions. Coming to terms with his new family and illness, he doesn't know what purpose he should serve. A threat determines Irken existence, with the Enemy tempting him with a chance to regain redemption. Removing the chains that made him is the hardest of all. Drifting far beyond the edge, everything becomes uncertain on the other side.

 _ **Disclaimer:**_

 _I do not own the IZ characters. However this story and this idea is mine._

 _Cover art beautifully made by_ _Truekrisstianity!_ _All credit goes to her, please do not use without permission, thank you :)_

 _ **Warnings:**_

 _Character death. Character angst. Blood. Swearing. Gary._

* * *

 **Dib07:** Hello there! I guess we're back to chapter one? XD

For those of you who are new to this huge novel, this is Part Two of **Saving Zim**. You can read it as it is, but you'd enjoy the story much better by reading Part One first. Also, to those who are new to this story, this novel is for adults who grew up with the show, and want something a little more mature. This story contains dark themes throughout.

Why am I separating this part with the original? In relation to Zim's 'new start' and the story picking up from where it left off, this story in itself takes another turn. There is a new plot, well, plots, and I only know that there is a lot more to tell.

This is a direct follow up from **chapter 42: Dissolving Boundaries.**

* * *

 **CHAPTER 1:** **Imperfection**

 _'New beginnings are often disguised as painful endings.'_

 _Lao Tzu_

-x-

 _'The way you look us over_  
 _Your counterfeit composure_  
 _Pushing again and again and sinking lower and lower_  
 _The world is on our shoulders_  
 _Do you really know the weight of the words you say?_

 _Don't you dare surrender_  
 _I'm still right beside you_  
 _And I would never_  
 _Replace your perfect imperfection'_

 _Imperfection - Evanescence_

 _-x-_

 _'Daylight_

 _I must wait for the sunrise_

 _I must think of a new life_

 _And I mustn't give in_

 _When the dawn comes_

 _Tonight will be a memory too_

 _And a new day will begin'_

 _Memory - Cats_

 _-x-_

He tried his hardest not to look repulsed when the shadow of the doorway fell over his frame, the bright afternoon sunshine now cast behind him, but his emaciated muscles tensed anyway, and his grimace only widened.

"We're all home now. No more worries." Clara unpeeled his blankets and cast them to the floor while Dib shut the door.

 _I can do this. ZIM can do this._

He wondered if they would be fine with him levelling the place and rebuilding it to his preferences, but even though the blunt question was on the tip of his tongue, he could only blink and stare like a terrified owl. He knew they'd be nothing here to hurt his existence, as the humans had proved to him more times than was necessary that he'd be safe, but he could not help but instinctively worry. Every space, every corner still had to be manually checked over, even if it meant lifting up every potted plant and...

Clara passed him over to Dib so that she could shrug off her coat. He thought his human would hold him awkwardly with a healthy dose of caution one would exhibit whilst holding a mad cat, but the investigator held him tightly to his chest, one arm supporting his rump. They briefly met eyes, and Zim noticed how perturbed his human looked. That smile appeared again, an altogether different facade transforming Dib's face whenever he realized Zim was looking his way.

He was passed back over like he was some precious ornament that was allergic to the floor or something, but his spilling anxieties shifted when he caught the strong waft of new smells. Human smells. Fragrances of washing up liquid, soap. Shoe polish and leather. The last time he had been here he had been under massive stress; his mind a cocktail of rage, kidnap and betrayal. The domicile had become a dungeon that held no warmth or comfort, instead offered only agony. It had poisoned his affection for his human, the human he had thought dead.

Clara mouthed something to Dib. He couldn't quite hear them and their hushed conspiracies. Something about him being 'too quiet?' Or 'too queer?'

Zim gazed in disbelief from the cradle of her arms, hypnotised by this new and ordinary world that was now his as much as theirs. It did not feel like it should be any Irken's home. It was plain, primitive, and ugly.

The foyer appeared clean and tidy, and there was a pink coat his size hanging from the coat rack by the door. Beyond the hallway was a doorway that led to the kitchen. Clara took him through while he gormlessly stared, and hanging from the ceiling over the shiny oak table was a silvery and gold banner. Embossed in red letters across it were the words: 'SEE YOU ON THE OTHER SIDE.'

He blinked, and looked again. It actually read: 'WELCOME HOME ZIM!'

She smiled, squeezing him a little tighter.

Louder, as Dib addressed him: "Well, hotshot, what do you think?"

He wasn't quite sure what to think. It felt like he was being pushed forcefully into a kind of imprisoning retirement home where real freedom was but an illusion.

His heavy head leaned against Clara's shoulder. It was too much. Was it normal, to feel _this_ unplugged? To feel like he wasn't really here? The world seemed to dim, its edges decaying as the essence of unreality started to unravel. He was entombed in darkness, floating in a capsule.

' _Is there anything else you would like to add in your last report to the Empire?'_

 _Breathe in. Count to 3. Exhale. Breathe in. Count to 3. Exhale._

"Zim?"

"Just give him a moment, Dib. All this is a bit of a shock."

"Maybe...maybe this wasn't such a good idea. We should have given him more time to recuperate with my dad."

As they spoke, the faintness started to steal away, his right antenna lifting before he turned to face the obsessively tidy kitchen.

The countertops were all sparse and clean, the fridge positively gleaming with polish – in fact every inch of furnishing was so spotless that he half believed the kitchen had come from a show-shop room. He could imagine Dib on his hands and knees, scrubbing for all he was worth to get the place to the former Elite's hygienic standards.

There were little wooden or metal folding footstalls here and there, he noticed, and then he could not stop noticing them. He was also aware that upon every door was a second handle that aligned with the topmost one. They were all at his height, and the lowermost handles connected with the upper in a basic pulley system. How many hours, how many days had Clara and Dib spent, redesigning this house with his limited stature in mind? Without his PAK legs, he could no longer elevate his limited height, and they had accommodated this disability of his as best they could.

When had they started working on these redesigns? Had it been before his PAK operation, or sometime after?

Zim woefully realized that, if he had opted for the serum button, Dib would have had to uninstall everything.

His antenna, the apex tip looking less sleek, felt the abyss of space above him.

Had the rooms always felt this...large?

Could you even suffer such a thing as reverse claustrophobia?

 _Fuss all you like._ He told himself, his eyes as hollow as the night sky. _I'll get home cooked meals now. I can order Dib around. He's basically become my minion._

A fuse exploded, and he shook his head.

 _No. NO! Irkens don't retire! I can't stop being a soldier! I don't want this! I can't!_

He had this perfect opportunity to let all his worries and duties slide away, and allow someone else to do the worrying. He could watch TV all day or reinvigorate his destructive pleasures and blow up a section of wall to expand this home's interior just to appease that 'Irken restlessness' in him. But what if he couldn't settle for their kind of normality?

Losing his kingdom – his status - for this.

The humans continued to look apprehensive, like greenhorns who had heard the first blast of enemy gunfire.

Clara's fingers stroked the bottom of his chin and before he knew it she had loosened the knots that had started inside him. "Let's show you the lounge, sweetpea."

He snorted. He knew what it looked like, and wasn't keen on revisiting it. But, unable to look away, unable to let go of control, he watched and scrutinised as he was carried there, where not so long ago, he had isolated himself into the far corner. This act; triggered by fright and distress, seemed long ago now, and distant, as if he had not been that Irken. He tried not to look at that corner – even though the holes and the blood he had left behind were no longer there. New carpet had replaced the old. It took a moment for his eyes to leave that place, but slowly and tensely he began to view the rest of the room.

The bookcase was filled with the usual kind of human nonsense. There was the wide screen TV, and nestled below it was the latest X-V console, and opposite the TV was a very soft, squishy kind of sofa that Gir would have loved to bounce on.

And there, standing elegantly in the far corner by the window was a sleek, black piano. He stared ghoulishly at it, hardly believing his own eyes.

What was it doing there? Just how much medicine had the professor doped him up on to enable such hallucinogenic visions?

Dib walked over to the piano and gently patted its top. "All yours, Zim. Something for you to play with. Or you could still drop it over a city. Just make sure everyone evacuates first."

The big, black piano looked so shiny. So enticing. He stared at it from big, shiny eyes.

How could Dib possibly know that he was partial to music? HOW? What spying tools did he have?

Clara showed him the wall above the sofa where they'd hung idealistic framed photos of Dib and Clara; one of the professor holding an award of some kind, one of Gaz actually _trying_ to smile (she looked like she had been seventeen at the time) and strangely, in the centre, one of him.

He looked angry in the photo. If God himself had taken a photograph of Zim every day of his life he would have looked angry in every single one. It was that freezing night in January when they had been playing cards in the Treaty. Dib had brought out a camera, said; "Smile you miserable bastard!" Zim had been wearing his disguise but he had looked none the happier for Dib taking the photo.

"We should show him his room." Dib suggested to his fiancée. "Then I suggest leaving him to it while we get the dinner going. We could all do with something to eat. How about it, Zim? You hungry?"

Food? Now? Really? Zim blinked at him in astonishment. Clara spoke for the Irken, aware of his strange quietness. "He's got a lot to take in. Give him a moment, Dib. Besides, you could do with a bath. You stink of cigarettes."

"I do?" He twirled on the spot as if he could seek the origin of the smell.

She took him upstairs as if she was entitled to take him wherever, whenever, and he chose to put up with it for now, having no clue what to do once his feet touched the floor. Dib followed, only to stop and shake his smelly jacket off half way up the stairs.

As she went, one step at a time, a hand pressed around his burbling PAK, Zim wondered how on Irk he was going to manage such a common obstacle as STAIRS now that he had no PAK legs to do the work for him. His steps at home had been little for little Irken legs. Now it would be like trying to go up and down something tantamount to Mount Everest.

 _Just mere obstacles for me to overcome._ He thought with some acrimony.

"And here's your room. I just painted it, so watch where you put those claws." Dib stepped ahead of Clara on the landing, and, doing the honours, pushed the door open. Inside was truly a palatial palace indeed. Zim however was admittedly a little downhearted that it looked as simple and as ordinary as the rest of the house.

There was an oval window above a bench-like seat to his right, and situated close by was a long, heavy-duty desk packed with raw machinery and computers. Opposite the desk and window was a bed topped in purple pillows and a soft lavender coloured bedspread that matched the soft lilac walls. He had seen the images of his room through blurry eyes on Clara's phone, but back then he had been lost in an abyss with no thought or care as every burden imaginable tried to crush him.

Lying on this new bed with a silly stitched grin across its face was the floppy plush doll of Gir that Clara had handmade.

The dark purple curtains framing the oval window stirred from the chill outside. As Zim looked, surveying the room from Clara's high vantage point, he saw Dib's old musical box on the purple nightstand. He knew by experience that it played 'Wanderer's Lullaby.' Next to it was a nightlight – one he would later realize produced soft white background noise and projected rotating lights on the ceiling. Unbeknownst to him, Dib had come up with this 'white noise' to allay the silence Zim was not used to experiencing. Though deaf on one side, the little ex-soldier had been comforted by the external hum of his base for over two and a half decades.

A bookcase stood close to the bed, and it was stuffed to the brim with books and magazines. Some were engineering guide handbooks next to a strange blend of fairy tales, and then there were comics of Batman, Mysteries of Strange Mystery first editions, and more fairy tale books and computer construction books than he knew what to do with.

Dib hoped he'd enjoy all these new things. As a soldier, Zim had not been allowed the freedom to take pleasure in anything that involved harmless fun and entertainment, and as such he would have overlooked or hated or ignored such humble pleasures that boosted creativity.

Clara went in a little ways before kneeling down on the carpet and sat Zim on her lap, encouraging him to get up and walk. A strange excitement stirred him into motion, and he tentatively slid down from her lap and limped forwards on socked feet. He naturally stooped a little, as if his PAK was laden with invisible burdens, and he walked with timid steps, looking tensely around him as if he was a weary traveller surrounded by menacing trees in a dark forest. He was attracted at once by the tidy pile of raw machinery that had been stacked by the desk: a desk that was low to the floor so that it was perfectly accessible for his height.

Dib watched him as he stood by, his smile a tepid one. By the bed stood sad reminders of Zim's continued ill health. There was an IV pole that he still didn't quite know how to use should they have need of it, and there was the old respirator machine with its many ugly vials and valve switches. The tubes were tucked up, the breathing mask clean and ready for use. There was no second guessing the utilities of the oxygen tanks – two of them – lined behind the bed's rail headboard. Aggressively marked on the warning label were the words HIGHLY FLAMMABLE. Capping these shiny silver tanks were more valves, and sprouting from them like plastic vines were the tubes.

Tucked and hidden under Zim's bed was a mini defibrillator machine. A spare stethoscope sat on a shelf directly above the Irken's bed. It was his father who had insisted on these precautions. Dib did not like to see them, even partially.

In that stoop of his, Zim did a quick rummage through the material, and whenever he glanced his way, Dib's worried face brightened instantly, and a plastic smile stretched across his face in the hopes of giving Zim confidence. The little creature still smelt of medicine and antiseptic from the lab, and that sly pervading hint of sickness overpowered the scent of his new clothing. Tomorrow maybe, when Zim was feeling a little stronger, he'd sponge bathe those smells away.

Zim gave the machinery one of his many idiosyncratic looks as he scrutinised the raw bulk of hardware. Cables trailed down the sides like naked tails. Some of it once belonged to old 90's computers, while others were 2033 editions. All of this was for him to pull apart, make use of, and remodel. The professor had also given Zim his most powerful computer which was already plugged into his room on a desk ready to go. It was to be his main console, and would give him exhaustive data on pretty much anything and everything that the knowledge of mankind could offer. As if he was an official superintendent, he ran one claw over the wood of the desk to check for dust.

"Whatever else you need, I can get it more or less, so long as you don't ask for nuclear warheads, or the DNA of some killer glowing worm monster." Dib chuckled behind him.

Clara hadn't moved from her kneeling position on the carpet. She was watching the old Irken intently. Zim noticed her staring, and wondered what she was looking for. Distress? Tears? Rage?

Clenching his claws and feeling the hand brace dig into his left palm, he toddled over to the window and climbed up the custom-made step so that he could sit at the window on a soft little daybed. Fresh April sunshine splashed across his pale face and his pastel cream and pink pyjamas.

Beneath his view was an expansive panorama of Dib's neglected garden. The overgrown path snaking along it had been eaten by weeds. The garage roof could be gleamed from where he sat, and he could see the fence that separated Dib's garden from the neighbouring woodland. He looked up, spying the horizon, and saw the monolithic profile of the city and its rising skyscrapers in the foreground of the Oregon Mountains. The remains of his house were in that suburb, somewhere. A proud Invader lived there once upon a time. Now it was a gravesite.

Zim forced himself to turn away before he could get too absorbed in past tragedies.

He clambered down the little wooden steps with rebellious legs, and studied the desk again and the little swivel chair with steely observant calm.

The bed also had a little set of wooden steps leading up to its left side, bridging the two foot gap from the floor. Everything was always within reach, despite his terribly small statue. Regardless of this staple fact, Dib had a strong hunch that his alien wanted to use his PAK legs at times. He'd look at a shelf with such concentration that Dib was sure he was mentally readying to deploy his cybernetic abilities to overcome whatever limited reach there may be – only to stop short, realize they were gone, and huff and pout some. These moments were becoming less and less frequent as he slowly grew to accept a life handicapped.

Dib watched him, realizing how heavy his scrutiny must look, and looked away.

The ex-soldier toddled over towards a toy chest, and opened it to find more gadgets. Dib walked over, and opened the little white wardrobe by the bed. "Here is where you'll find all your clothes."

Zim glanced up from where he knelt by the toy chest, looking at the various sets of clothes hanging low to the floor so that he could reach them without effort. There were hoodies. Cardigan tops. Turtleneck sweaters. Pants. Little tiny sheepskin booties. Mittens. Pyjamas. And there were shelves stacked with extra fleece blankets, pillows, towels and bed sheets.

There was not a single uniform in sight.

"In here, your medicine." Dib opened the top drawer of his little nightstand, and Zim could hear the glassy click of vials clacking together. "The upstairs bathroom is catered to your needs too. Even the toilet has a little stepping stool."

Zim winced when he climbed back to his feet. Then he stood with his feet apart – clasping his hands beneath his PAK as if he was standing on military ceremony. The pulse in his appended intravenous whisked around to its usual tempo. His mouth opened to speak, but he shortly closed it again, and his antenna fell.

"I'll leave you two to it." Clara got to her feet. "I'm going to make us dinner. Zim, how does some hot broth sound?"

Zim's flicked his antenna up at her voice, his head jerking round as if he'd been in a dream. "B-Broth?" He stammered. His expression looked pain-filled as if he was on a very important trial, and told to answer every incriminating truth. He did not relax from his 'parade rest.'

"Yes." She said clearly so that he could hear her. "Do you have something else in mind?"

The professor had helped Clara and Dib along in their quest for Irken dietary knowledge. He had been giving Zim liquid foods during the early days when he was very sick, many of these dishes consisting of vegetable soups. Then the professor gave Zim dried plain oatmeal biscuits, and plain bread.

"No."

They were both staring at him.

She finally nodded and left the bedroom.

"So, space boy. What do you think? Do you suppose it'll contain at least some of your evil?" Dib teased. He wanted Zim to make and build things when he was a little more ready, hoping this creativity would dispel his depression for good.

There were metal shelves for his work and collected oddities, and there was a chest cabinet and toy box for his blueprints, potions and chemistry set. Dib knew it would never be like his old place, as nothing could replace his technology. He just hoped that what they could give Zim would be enough.

"You made all th-this? For me?"

"Well, of course, Zim. But you've got to learn to share. This room is yours of course, but every other room is for sharing. Remember that."

Zim cast his eyes around, turning his head with unremitting chronic tension. If he had been placed in a district full of nightmarish ghouls, he would have behaved no differently.

"Zim?"

The Irken gave him a fraction of attention, absorbed as he was in assessing his little domicile.

"I want to show you something. I'm real sorry if it upsets you. I just think it's better if I return him to you."

Dib opened a little drawer in his desk, and brought out something limp and unmistakably familiar. There really wasn't that much left of dear old Gir, save for the head and chassis. Fine little circuitry wires had sprung out of the open chassis like multicoloured threads. Dib had salvaged all he could. In fact, there was a large amount of his old things spread here and there. Zim would soon discover that there was plenty of cleansing chalk in the customised bathroom, ration packs of food, and an old bath toy he used to pulverise when he was in the washroom of his base for stress relief.

Zim cradled Gir's head to his chest. He had had nightmares concerning the robot – but nightmares the little robot had guided him through, or out of.

"What are you thinking, buddy?" Dib had squatted down low so that he was closer to his level. He tried to pick up on Zim's mood by reading whatever slight expression the Irken revealed, but mostly he went by the expressive ambience of his eyes, or by the position or angle of his right antenna.

"You...you saved what was left." Came his shy, gratified croak. When he turned the robot's head around to inspect it, one of the eyes jangled loose from its socket, but didn't fall as a thread of wiring held it.

"Not me." He said. "Clara. She knows how important possessions are, especially to an orphan."

He looked up at Dib. His marbled fuchsia eyes were wet and shiny. Then he placed Gir's head lovingly on the desk.

"His corrupted data stopped him from being himself. Stopped him from b-being Gir." He swallowed thickly. "Once your Membrane Father told me what it was, I understood the formula. The CPU was used on enemy warships. A microprocessor. I carried it around like a fool, only for it to be triggered by that lousy electromagnetic pulse thingy!" He kicked once at the floor with his weak foot. "Whenever Gir's behavioural sensors perceived a weakness in me after that, dropping my guard for instance, it triggered him."

"Zim... Zim I..." What could he say? What could he do that might alleviate this hurt? Maybe it hadn't been so wise to recover Gir's remains, and have them here, reminding the former Elite of his failures.

Zim took a wheezy breath, as deep as he was able to manage, and turned away from the remains of a life long gone. That left leg of his wobbled. With another hard swallow, the Irken pointed over at the door with a stern claw to distance himself from Gir's remains, at least, for awhile. "There's no lock."

The door, like all the others, had a second handle at the Irken's height – both top and bottom handles were attached to a cord of strong elastic cord. Once Zim pushed down on the lower handle, the string pulled taut against the upper one, releasing the catch.

"I've already told you why, Fudgekins. Clara and I need to have access no matter what."

"Yes, yes, it's those stinkin' House Rules of yours again!" At last, a flicker of the old Zim. "But... what if... what if somebody comes in? What if... it isn't safe? You have no first-class security systems. No lockdown force fields! No sentry turrets! How do you two idiots live like this?"

"You are perfectly safe! I know it must feel very strange when you can't rely on the protection of your old technology, but you _are_ safe. No one's ever going to know you're here. And we'll make a new disguise for you."

"Install security cameras at least! Over the front door!" He croaked petulantly. "And the back porch! So I can see who's coming and who's g-going!"

"If it'll give you peace of mind, I will."

"And what if... what if Zim wants to be alone?" His question rounded off into an angry squeak. All this energy he was using just to speak made his chest labour that little bit harder.

"If you install a lock on your door Zim, I'm taking it off. Do you hear me?"

Zim crossed his arms and looked away, right antenna fully erect. "I hear you." He muttered in a very small voice.

Now that that was out the way, Dib's stern expression softened on the instant. "We'll always knock first. That should give you plenty of time to hide whatever doomsday device you happen to be in the middle of making." He said. "If you want to have some privacy, sure, just tell us. Now, let's show you the rest of your new home before supper. Then you need to rest."

He waited for Zim to show some willingness for the tour to continue. It wasn't to determine a lack of interest; it was see how much energy he still had to spare, and he did not like asking him if he had the energy to do this or that. Reminding this little former soldier of his limits never went down very well.

Dib paused suddenly, looking at the Irken in an almost dismayed manner. Zim's surviving antenna twitched, wondering what it was that had caught his attention. Was there a spider crawling up his face? The human stared a moment longer, in the place just above Zim's head, then his eyes cleared up, and he was on his way again. "Okay, on with this tour thingy."

Zim slowly followed like a little shadow, gingerly touching his antenna, but it felt normal enough. Maybe Dib had been looking _behind_ him.

When he went to leave his room, and not quite used to the new orientation of the place, his eyes everywhere, he walked face first into the doorframe that had been left hanging open at a sharp angle.

"Oh Zim! You gotta watch out for those!"

The alien growled, holding his face. A bruise – darkish lime – was already forming between his eyes.

 _Good luck explaining this to Clara._ Dib thought, wincing at the potential backlash he would receive.

He opened the door directly next to Zim's, showing the little Irken the master bedroom. Everything towered above the alien. The bed. The closet and wardrobe. The dresser. The windowsill. The walls were an ice-cream coffee colour, and the curtains were a rich chocolate shade. Zim raised his antenna at the sounds of lonesome cars rushing on by outside.

"We sleep right next door, so we're never far away." Dib said, giving his ex-nemesis a moment to eye up the place. Then he turned round and headed for the bathroom. Again, like Zim's custom bed, the toilet had a little footstool. An extra wooden flap came down that would ensure no little creatures could go falling in. In a little wicker basket was the Irken's supply of cleansing chalk. The professor had kept one so that he could make duplicates.

"How am I supposed to get in the tub?" Zim croakily asked. For the giant bath – well – it was enormous to him anyway – had no stepping ladder or footstall as if it was automatically out of bounds.

"I'm not letting you anywhere near unregulated water, Zim. You've got your own tub. And we'll be the ones bathing you until you're a little better."

Dib opened a bathroom cupboard and pulled out one of those pint-sized plastic baths made for children to bath their dolls in. The ex-Elite eyed it incredulously before his mood adjusted to unreserved revulsion as if Dib was showing him how best to eat a slug. "Is this your fun idea of torturing me?" Zim asked.

"Sure is." He chuckled, and slipped the offending item back into the cupboard. But it was on a shelf too high for the Irken to reach, almost as if the investigator was predicting that Zim would try to steal it, and melt it over a large bynson burner.

Just as he was about to follow the man back out, he caught his reflection in the tall bathroom mirror. He toddled back a few steps, snarling at once when his eyes jadedly caught the image of the shiny blue tube and the gloomy blemishes under both eyes. Then he saw with double grievance what Dib had been staring at.

The tip of his right antenna had started to turn white.

His implacable thought: _Fuck. I'm getting older._

The jagged left, about as crooked as the letter Z, had also started to turn whiter at its torn edges.

He didn't care how he'd do it, or what with, but by Irk he was going to paint those tips black again.

Dib was waiting for him on the landing. The Irken walked out, his hip disallowing him to commence his usual goose-steps. Cognisant of his appearance, he flattened his antenna right down, making himself even deafer.

There was one more room next to the master bedroom. The door was shut, and this time there was no second 'Zim-high' handle on which to open it with. And the door was a baby blue. But Dib did not even mention it, as if the room behind the blue door was totally exempt from the tour.

"What's in that one?" Zim asked.

"Oh, that? That's urm... just a spare room. It's not important."

Zim stood looking at it with an adopted keenness that he gave his most stubborn of foes. "Why don't you open it?"

"It's a real mess in there, hotshot. Maybe later."

Zim warily looked around, eyes wet and glassy. He gave Dib the impression of a field mouse spying for that prowling owl above the nodding heads of wheat. The rooms and spaces were large for an Irken so small. He was used to interweaving through catacombs, low ceilings, confining arterial tunnels and walkways. Despite his deafness, he was aware of new noises, as well as new smells. He had to cope with all this, as well as coming to terms with his infirmity.

They came to the top of the stairs. It was a long, scary drop for one so small, and Zim automatically shied back a few steps. There was no way his tired muscles and heart could manage the entire decent, especially with his precarious balance.

"I'll carry you down."

"No." He said. "I can perfectly manage!"

"Uh huh. And then you'll fall and break something." He reached out, put a hand under Zim's arms, and lifted him up. He could feel that awful gauntness beneath his soft velvety clothing. He was much too frail to really be walking just yet. He held him against his chest, one hand beneath his rear, the other holding his shoulder as he walked down the stairs.

The kitchen was fragrant with the beautiful smells of cooking. The banner of 'WELCOME HOME ZIM' was still strung across the ceiling above the table. The table itself was already set for three. A red candle sat in the middle, and at each place mat was a spoon, fork, knife and serviette. Dib eased Zim onto his chair – a chair piled high with cushions so that he could reach the table and his plate. Zim jumped when Dib went to tie a napkin around his neck. "It's okay! We don't want your pyjamas getting dirty!"

Zim eyed his exits while Dib did his stupid fiddling. There was the backdoor by the dishwasher. The doorway that led back out into the hallway behind him. The windows weren't even covered with curtains, and here he was, sitting at the dinner table in plain sight! What if someone came and knocked at the door, like the irksome postmen that revisited his old home day after day like a reoccurring disease? There were cookie-scoutie girls and those nosy window cleanie people!

The room felt stuffy, the former Elite suddenly finding it harder to breathe.

"Zim, it's okay. I've already locked and bolted the front door, and if anyone knocks, I'm not answering them." Dib put a soft, reassuring hand on the Irken's bony shoulder. He had obviously perfectly seen and understood Zim's fractious concerns.

"But... but anyone can..."

"I have no immediate neighbours. Hell, you could play around in the garden and no one would see you because I have a forest growing on all sides of the fence."

"Dib," Clara called, "can you serve the food, please? Zim's is on the left. And why is there a bruise on his face?"

"He walked into a doorframe." He replied.

"I didn't walk into a doorframe." Zim mumbled to himself, "It walked into me."

Dib walked over to the stove, turned off the heat and served out the steaming vegetables onto a plate. As he served out the lasagne, he turned to see Clara pat Zim's forehead with ointment using an antiseptic pad. The Irken sat perfectly still, closing his eyes on occasion when the pad got close to them. "There." She said to him, "Perfect! Just don't go walking into anymore doorframes, okay?"

Dib grabbed the pan and poured the soup into a dish. Clara helped him serve the dishes. Zim was watching their every movement from his cushion-piled chair as if he was on some secret mission to spy on their hospitality. He fidgeted nervously, unsure as he was on how to act and behave amongst humans. He was used to doing things for himself. Used to doing things a certain way. Releasing the reins on his life and allowing these people to look after him was not just strange – it was unbalancing.

Clara placed a bowl of broth in front of him, and a side dish of peaches for desert alongside a tall plastic cup of chocolate milk.

It was not the first time Zim had taken food from them. During the weeks of being in the lab he had been spoon-fed oatmeal, or a mush of various flavours as he twisted and turned in fever. He had been sure he would inevitably get sick from their poison. But so far, he hadn't had a single bad reaction.

"I got another call today. From work." Dib was saying as he sat on Zim's left. He took up his knife and fork and began cutting into his brick of lasagne. Zim was watching him curiously as if what his human was doing was somehow both magical and bizarre. "I've run out of sick pay. Though the money doesn't worry me, I can't lose my position. One of us is going to have to go back to work. And it's gotta be me."

"Can't you work part time?" Clara asked. She was sitting opposite her fiancé at the other side of the table.

Reflexively, his antenna was pulled in towards their conversation, mirroring his attention, his eyes darting left and right.

 _This is madness!_ He came to realize. _I'm in a house! A HUMAN house! Eating with... eating with HUMANS! Talking their small talk! This is it! This is how I'll go mad!_

The door somewhere in his head, the very same door that locked out his alter ego, laughed and laughed.

Dib took a sip from his soda, realizing that Zim had yet to taste his broth. The Irken was staring at each of them in turn, ashen pale, and looking utterly trapped in bewilderment. "Zim, are you okay?"

"Err, yes, yes." Zim said on autopilot. If Dib had asked him if he wanted to try some coloured crayons with his meal, his reply would have been the same.

"Eat, honey. You must be starving!" Clara was looking down at him from across the candle light.

"So, you like your room?" Dib asked.

"I hope the place isn't too big for you." Then the girl.

"There's still the garage to see, and what I've got stored in there."

They went on and on, talking to and fro. They packed his head with too much noise.

"Please! Enough!" Zim weakly brought both his fists down on the table, causing his spoon to rattle upon the tablemat. There was silence following his croaky bark, and he shyly looked up at the two humans, wondering where his temper had come from.

Dib just nodded and politely smiled, but Zim could feel the change in his mood. "It's...it's okay. Nobody's expecting you to absorb everything at once. There is no pressure. Honest. This is a big change for all of us."

"Please eat, Zim." Clara insisted more firmly. "Your food is getting cold."

It was the first time he was eating anything without the professor's strict regulations, reliant as he was on his infinite wisdom. Still, Zim picked up the spoon and dipped it into his steaming broth that was loaded with chunks of vegetable. Despite the natural look of distrust marking his face, he was thankful. Leave Gir alone in the kitchen for just one second under the simple instructions of making a pasta dish, and lord and behold that robot would make a hodgepodge dish containing glitter, raw potatoes, horse radish and teddy bear stuffing.

He took a swallow from the spoon and inwardly marvelled at the taste. There were no cruel spots of pain leaping along his tongue and lips. No allergic flare-ups or anything similar. He took another sip. The professor's food had been adequate, yes, but it was always Dib's and Clara's cooking that had a wholesome flavour.

"So, looking forward to being a bug of leisure?" Dib teased. His smile was a little more fulsome again, a little newer. The Irken was noticing how both the humans had changed since coming home now that they were away from the beeping machines and long stretches of unfriendly laboratory.

Zim rolled his eyes at the human. "Not when I've got about a billion things to fix and improve. You call this a house? I call it a hovel!" He turned in his seat and pointed at the washing machine that had, all this time, stood innocently amongst the other appliances. "What on Irk is that?"

"That's a washing machine. You load laundry in it. You know, clothes and stuff."

"Do you have perimeter defences?" He was already thinking of uprooting them, and setting up new IRKEN ones around the boundary of his room.

"No, space boy. No. That would actually be pretty dangerous."

Zim tensed, thinking of what would happen the day after this, and the day after that, and the day after that. What if he grew tired of them, or they of him? He could imagine himself going bananas in less than a week. The fear of his own PAK only emphasised this uncomfortable unknown.

When he reached for his glass of chocolate milk he noticed how badly his claws were shaking. Quickly he snatched his hand back to his chest, hoping neither of the two had seen. They both seemed to be busy eating and chatting, but he was also pretty sure they were mentally noting down every little thing he did.

He sipped down some more of the broth, but the vegetables were thick, the sauce rich in natural flavours. Before long his spooch had had about enough.

Dib talked some, about work, and all the mysterious missed phone calls he kept finding on his answering machine, and Clara exchanged his boring drips and drabs with equally boring drips and drabs about the weather, and if it was a good idea to invite Gaz round, and oh what about the shopping? There was a sale on! Oh and darn that washing machine! It takes ages to wash those clothes! There's so much to clean! Oh and we'd better pay that gas bill!

On and on and ON they went, talking about human stuff that meant nothing to him.

He rested with his chin on the palm of his hand, but before long his elbow slipped, his chin sagged, and pretty soon he was snoring quietly against the backrest of the chair.

Dib jammed a thumb at the dozing Irken, whispered, "We'd better take the old goofball to bed."

"I don't want to wake him."

"He'll only get cold, Clara. And if he spooks himself and falls off the chair..."

"Okay, okay." She went round to the back of his chair, seeing that he hadn't managed to eat all that much. "Zim, honey, bedtime."

The Irken roused, eyes opening, and was only half aware of what she was saying. "No." He muttered weakly. "No. You don't... you don't tell Zim what time of bed it is..."

She chuckled as she untied the napkin from around his neck. "Even warriors need their beauty sleep, Zim. Come on. If you don't put up a fuss, I'll read to you."

"I'll get to find out what that stupid Pan does with that Hook person in this Never Ever Land?"

She nodded. "Of course." She lifted him up, holding him securely in her arms from long weeks of practise.

"My bed should have an armoured shell that descends over it." Dib could still hear Zim mutter tiredly as Clara carried him away. "I can biologically inscribe force fields. You could still come in. If you're good th-that is."

Dib remained sitting at the table, his smile finally dropping clean away to reveal the worry he'd been feeling ever since getting Zim home. He pushed his plate of food away from him, also unfinished, and dropped his face in his hands.

-x-

She took Zim to the bathroom, and left him there with the door closed. He was only in there a short while, and he opened the door himself using the two-way handle system that Dib had so cleverly installed.

"Washed your hands?"

He nodded, his tired eyes of hard fuchsia watching her with studious intent.

"We'll get you changed into something that'll really keep you warm."

He walked after her, padding silently across the carpet of his new room. She drew the curtains across the oval window and turned his bedside lamp on. Glowing stars appeared on his ceiling with the contrast. He peered up at them bleakly.

Clara opened his white wardrobe and took out a pair of pink pyjamas decorated in white stars.

Zim paused at his desk, his eyes falling upon the corpse of Gir. All the strewn bits and pieces of machinery, circuit boards, wires and flaxen tubes begged for him to start tinkering. To _make_ something. His claws flexed against the palm of his hands as he stood by the desk chair.

"Zim? It's bedtime. You can have some fun tomorrow."

He growled, dipping his chin and casting his eyes aggressively at the desk and all its promising wonders as he moved reluctantly from it. He took a step on the little ladder that had very stable, soft rungs, and climbed onto his bed – a surprisingly easy thing for his hurting joints to cope with.

The bed was soft under him, the fleecy coverlets so velvety and ductile beneath the painful sensitivity of his bare hands. The plush doll of Gir had been sitting by his pillow. Now it slipped and fell onto its side, its stitched mouth gently smiling its silly smile.

Not wanting Clara to baby him anymore, he started undoing the buttons down his top. He never liked to expose himself, and did not like to show more skin than he was comfortable with, especially now that he had many more bones to show, principally his ribs and hip bones. They popped out of his skin in hard ridges and lines, hips jutting out like little handles. There was nothing left of his chest now but a skeletal ribcage that would no doubt play a note if someone ran their finger down its rungs. It was just as well the bandages hid them away.

Angrily he pulled a sleeve down each arm before tugging the pants off his legs.

Clara could see the confusion and upset gather in Zim's eyes like a building storm. Before he could get too embarrassed, she draped the new top about his shoulders and helped pop an arm down the sleeves. Soon he was all dressed and wrapped in the pyjamas, and in seconds he could feel toasty warmth spread through to his bones; stilling any shivers that had started in his hands and feet. Lastly, the hand brace was removed.

"There! All snugly and cosy again!" She said.

Zim tugged out a gentle smile. This alteration of his behaviour, much less his character, gave her a sense of extraordinary disquiet. He was responding to her more now than he had ever done before - but this openness, this emendation in him was a sad reminder of how broken he'd become. The majority of what made him had been taken, figuratively and physically.

Then he looked away from her, eyes staring back at the broken Gir sitting on his desk. The poxy thing of a moon was shining bright as if someone was holding a flashlight through the curtains. Heavy silence filled the room. It was as loud as a proclamation.

"What are you thinking about, honey?"

His eyes swept down low, taking in the soft velvets of his blankets.

"Nothing." He said in that husky, roughened voice. The claws on his lap tensed into fists as those self-destructive urges he could hardly control stormed through him in sharp relays. "Everything."

She noticed the way he was holding himself. Despite the frumpy, soft pyjamas and the deep serenity of the room, he was rigid and tense as if he was awaiting the summons of the final call to arms. His right hand in particular was so clenched that the knuckles were turning white.

"Why do you tense up, honey?" She took his right fist and eased out his claws one by one. He had been gripping them so tightly that the claws had cut into the skin, causing dozens of little dark indents, some of which were bloody. She kneaded them until he relented, his claws falling slack in her hold. It was no different to what an extremely anxious human did when they were in a bad or a new situation that scared them. It was a way of bracing oneself against present hardships.

"I'm not tense." He defended.

"It's a lot to take in. You battled through today okay, didn't you? It'll get easier. And one day soon, you'll enjoy it. Being part of a family."

His eyes were unreadable as he looked at her; thoughts trapped inside that might always be out of reach. She smiled weakly at him, not sure how else to reassure him, and when she reached the shelf where his stethoscope lay to grab the storybook of Peter Pan, she heard Zim mutter in his patented croak; "I could not lay a claw on this infernal planet now anyway." He sounded perplexedly content and angry about it: confused perhaps by the paradox he had found himself in. Earth had changed his incentives long since, now more than ever. He had been shown such kindnesses that even if he was new and strong and deadly again, he would either depart from Earth to find somewhere else to conquer, or stay and live peacefully. "I just wish... I wish Gir..."

"Just remember how far you've come. I often think we're like characters in a book, and some of us still have many stories to tell. Now, get cosy, and I'll read to you."

He growled despairingly at her; either because she was telling him what to do, or because he wasn't ready to settle down. After all, his new workstation was opposite him, and must have looked tempting indeed for a workaholic Irken.

Zim tugged the blankets all the way up to his neck before resting his head upon the big, squishy pillow that smelt as alien as everything else. The bed was much larger than the safe and pleasing confinements of the cocoon he was used to at home. It was like he was resting on a huge platform and it encouraged an uneasy helplessness in him.

Clara even placed the Gir doll by his shoulder. He was careful not to react to it.

"Dib kn-knows something." He exclaimed, and her eyes jerked towards him, the question catching her off-guard.

"And what might that be?" She asked.

"I don't know!"

"You need to stop worrying, honey, and concentrate on getting better."

As she began reading, leading off from the end of the last chapter, his exhaustion did not quite eclipse his fear of what would come next. The lights would go out – Clara would leave. Then what? What would he do in the long hours of the dark, other then be a victim to his own narrative horror as his brain spoke its mind?

He was afraid of his body. Every hour was a countdown to the next dose of medicine.

In heartbreak, he glanced over at the amputated Gir on the desk as Clara read to him.

 _I'm going to OVERCOME this._

 _I just feel...out of sorts._

Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes.

 _No. Don't cry. Not again. You big, dumb worm-baby._


	2. Dreams, Doubt and Heartache

**Saving Zim: Epilogue by Dib07**

 _ **Summary:**_

 _When you had it all. When old age forces you to change._

 _When life isn't what you'd imagined._

 _When you aren't prepared to be so powerless._

 _When a soldier's undetermined future remains his greatest fear._

 _ **Disclaimer:**_

 _I do not own the IZ characters. However this story and this idea is mine._

 _Cover art beautifully made by_ _Truekrisstianity!_ _All credit goes to her,_ _please do not use without his permission, thank you :)_

 _ **Warnings:**_

 _Character death. Character angst. Blood. Swearing. Gary._

* * *

 **Dib07:** Your reviews cheered me on to the moon and back, so I'm really happy how much you enjoy this little (well, uh, mad long) series!

* * *

 **CHAPTER 2:** **Dreams, Doubt and Heartache**

 _'The mind is its own place,_

 _and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.'_

 _John Milton_

-x-

 _'I'm walking down the line_  
 _That divides me somewhere in my mind'_

 _Green Day - Boulevard of Broken Dreams_

-x-

Clara lowered the book, and knew he was asleep. His chest rose higher, and he took deeper, calmer breaths. When awake, his breathing consisted of short, shallow sips as if he was on the verge of an emotional breakdown. The lines on his face, usually so sharp and excessive that served to boost that worried appeal he wore, were now smoother.

She hoped he would sleep through the night, but she also knew that he'd need to be woken in a few hours for his routine injection.

Clara was reluctant to leave him. All through the professor's care, he had never been alone, largely because of his health. But if he wasn't well enough to go home, then the professor would have kept him under supervision and care for another week or so.

She put the book back and flicked his nightlight on, letting it play gentle melodic music which also produced soft, ambient pinks.

She turned his bedside lamp off and tiptoed to the door. Zim didn't even stir. The day had taken its toll on him.

-x-

Dib possessed this grave look of sombre resignation, looking like a man who had taken on too great a responsibility and was left to contemplate it.

Though his eyes were staring at the TV screen, she could tell that he wasn't paying complete attention.

On the screen was an episode of Mysterious Mysteries of Strange Mystery, and the host was addressing the audience as he said: "And the biggest debate of the century that's mystifying the world: what happened to the planet Mars? Stay tuned as we look into this shocking discovery."

He was leaning against the armrest of the sofa, toying with that empty vial that had a drop of some pink liquid inside. His hair was scruffy and he was in his flannel pjs. She had tried to cheer him up with some hot chocolate but the mug was still sitting, untouched on the side table. It had gone cold.

Clara sat down beside him, and then chose to lean closer. He responded by wrapping an arm around her. When he squeezed her, the contact had a touch of desperation to it. His eyes kept that vacuous look to them.

She didn't know what else to do other than offer her support. His exhausted mind was a mix of worries, fears and responsibilities. He was used to taking too much onto his shoulders, but this decision required something more. Maybe he was still guilty of dragging her into it. Suffice to say, she couldn't be happier.

She had chosen on her own terms even though she had been unwittingly pushed into doing surgery. That was a hard way of making Zim's acquaintance and gory first introductions were never her speciality.

Besides, life would certainly be boring without the two of them.

The phone buzzed on the side table. He stretched to pick it up, seeing that he had one new unread message. He tapped on it, revealing a short punctual text.

It was from his father.

 _'And how did it go? All's well I trust?'_

He quickly thumbed a reply: _'Too early to tell. Zim is in a state of shock.'_ Then he hit send.

The host on TV was now discussing the satellite Juno, and how it had disappeared at around the same time that Mars had, and that they were pinning all their hopes on the new satellite Juno II to investigate further. Apparently Jupiter's orphaned moons were now all over the place without a gravitational field, and that they might someday become a threat as they travelled aimlessly around the solar system.

Wherever Zim had gone, he sure left his mark.

"You don't think this is going to work out, do you?" She asked while carefully reading his expression.

He avoided her question completely. "And what will you do once I go back to work?"

Clara shrugged. She hadn't had much time to think about the future. "Your father said that Zim shouldn't be left alone so I guess that means one of us needs to stay home. Besides, the chores will keep me busy, that and watching episodes of Mystique. I have like, thirty to catch up on. I gotta feed you both up too, so I'll be doing a lot of cooking."

"What about your old home?"

"It's still up for sale. I haven't had many buyers. There are a few things I need to grab but that's all."

There was yet more silence. Clara got an extraordinary sense of disquiet. Dib was usually very chatty, as there was always so much he wanted to talk about.

He was probably thinking about the past as well. His hand was twirling that vial in his fingers that would not go amiss around the neck of a sorcerer. Looking into the past heralded its own pain, but also a sense of accomplishment. Of a long journey coming to its conclusion.

Maybe Dib was wishing Zim had a little more time to enjoy living free. Or maybe he was reliving the choices he had made, and wishing things had gone a little differently.

Then he looked at her, realized the way she was looking at him, and put on a tepid smile. "No more going back and forth to my dad's lab. You must be tired from all that travelling. I know I am."

"I am a little tired." She confessed. "All this stress and worry has made me feel dizzy all day."

"Me too."

"Are you happy?" She asked.

She felt him squeeze her hand. "More than I'd ever imagine."

"Then why do you look so sad?"

"I guess tomorrow scares me a little."

"We're all afraid of the future Dib, and we're brave for living and facing each day that comes."

He nodded ever so slightly, though not looking totally encouraged.

"I just never knew who Zim and I were going to be when we got older." He said in a half whisper. "How we'd fit in with society. Our paths have finally converged after so many wrong turns. It's just that... I feel sorry for what happened to him. And Gir. And what his leaders chose to do to him. I know he did bad things because he was pushed to do them. It doesn't make what he did right, but it helps me understand why he did what he did. Now I fear he's too sick to enjoy what time he has left, of being free. Free from his dark rulers." He took a shaky breath. "And at my dad's lab, he cried so much. Monsters don't cry. But I set that wire trap anyway."

Clara wrapped an arm around him. "You taught him to be human, Dib. You showed him a kindness he didn't know existed. He learnt how to regret. He's so fond of you. Of this planet. But you had to show him how. _You_ took those initial steps."

He sighed. Felt lighter. Then he pulled her close. Despite that crevasse of worry taking up residence in his heart, he felt like he had come home after a long journey. He had that rounded feeling of safety in a stable routine again, both in life and in his relationship. He blanched at the philosophies of having such an odd family now, but he welcomed it, especially when Clara was so convivial to the whole idea, even going so far as arranging it before he'd even thought that far ahead. Having Zim home felt good, it felt complete. Like a dear friend taking up a long awaited residence.

"Is he asleep, do you think? I worry that he'll hide under the bed and stay there 'til morning."

"I don't know. I'd keep peeking on him all night but I don't want to upset him."

"Yeah."

"Did you listen to his heart before you put him to bed?" He asked.

"No, not today. I thought he'd been through enough."

-x-

Dib stared up at the coffee cream walls around him, and watched the shadows of the leaves projected by the streetlight outside waver restlessly across the curtains. He was tempted to get up and check on their tiny adopted alien, but he was afraid of waking him, if of course he was even asleep. But, as much as Zim liked to remind them that he didn't need much sleep at all, he had slept and slept deeply under the care of the professor. No longer was he the light-sleeper, the insomniac. Ill health and old age had almost made him appear to hibernate. And an extremely decrepit heart demanded its own heavy levy of rest.

Dib, though tired, did not feel the creep of fatigue. "I don't like leaving him in that room on his own. He's always had someone to watch over him." He whispered this, wondering why it was that he was whispering. Zim wouldn't be able to hear them, even if they were speaking at a normal volume. "And what if his PAK tube comes out accidently?"

"He'll be fine. We'll take good care of him, you know that. And your father made that tube to be durable. It's pretty much cemented in. There's no way it's coming out. You're just thinking of things to worry about!"

Dib was silent for a bit, mulling over the things she had said. Then he swallowed, added: "He's quiet, isn't he?"

"He'll be back to his old mischievous self before long."

"I sure hope so. I never thought I could admire and love an alien, much less my old enemy. But love him...I do."

"He loves you too, honey. He wouldn't have fought so hard to be here otherwise."

He nodded, and blew out a longwinded sigh. He turned to see the clock on the dresser by the bed. It had just gone nine.

The phone rang in shockingly shrill notes, crashing that mild, gentle silence. It was on his dresser by the bed, and he grabbed it, fearing that the noise would wake Zim.

"Hello?" He asked. Who'd call? Maybe it was his dad, checking in on them and their little Irken, even if it wasn't exactly social hours? But no one responded on the other end. "Hello?" He repeated, thinking that the connection was perhaps not so good. Again he was met by silence. Or maybe it was not all silence. Was that breathing he could hear? Or was that his own?

He put the phone down, docking it back into its receiver.

"Who was it?" Her tired amber eyes looked at him questionably.

"Must be the wrong number."

"You seem to be getting them a lot of that lately."

"Huh, yeah." He paused a moment, then kicked back the bed sheets. "I can't take it anymore. I'm gonna go check on him."

He put on his fluffy slippers and slipped into his dark blue gown. Then he slipped quietly from their open bedroom door and across the short distance on the landing between their room and Zim's. There was a singular window on the wall by the bathroom door. Through it glided the moon naked, cold light peeking out between the progressions of silvery cloud.

The door was open this time by about four inches. Either Zim had finally heeded Clara's counsel, or his body had mutinied and hit that 'sleep' button before his brain could do anything else about it.

He thought of knocking, would usually knock, and decided not to. The sound would only frighten the alien.

He went inside, slippers stepping on soft lavender carpet. The Irken did not stir. Beside him the nightlight continued its soft parade of lighting effects and the melody of white noise. It illuminated the Irken's profile in dashing pinks and purples.

Dib softly walked up to his bedside. Zim lay limp and easy in rest, his head turned towards his nightstand. One claw lay open on his pillow, and even in the near-dark he could see the emerald indents decorating his palm.

His breathing was calm and easy, only with a slight squeak at the zenith of every inhale. Thankfully that phone call had not disturbed the old goof.

To have him finally home was a priceless reward beyond compare. His father had worked his great scientific magic, and lifted the burdens that would otherwise have crushed Zim's life. Now he lay like a small child; no uniform to signify his enterprises, no sanctity of duty to keep him on the dark side of his endeavours. No orders to follow, no mission to sacrifice himself to. Zim seemed more afraid of freedom than of death, and he had crossed burning bridges to confront a path he had never considered, or understood, yet here he was. The only thing left to ask was; would he accept this life now that he was living it? And if he accepted it, would he one day come to like it?

He noticed that, trapped under one bony arm, was the Gir plush toy. He was hugging it firmly to his chest as he slept.

"Goodnight, little guy." He whispered, feeling a great weight lift from his shoulders. Zim was well. He wasn't awake and afraid, or driven to hide under the bed like he imagined he might.

He tiptoed back to the door and glanced over his shoulder, feeling proud at how far they had both come. The episodes that had marked them would forever be painful, for many losses had slipped through their fingers, but Zim had survived. He deserved happiness. Deserved a family. He just now hoped that the future wouldn't hold bleak possibilities. That time would be gentler on Zim, as it would be for him.

-x-

His eyes flew open the moment he thought something had just brushed past him.

Shallowly breathing, he propped himself up on one elbow, scrutinizing into the near-dark for the perpetrator.

He felt a corresponding necessity to call upon the computer to notify him that all was safe.

The mosaic of friendly colours, fracturing upon the lilac walls from the humming nightlight, suggested no menace. Even so, his diminutive body stiffened with a habitual tension as his eyes darted to and from every drop of shadow.

Greedily his claws plucked up the quilt and he swept it fast to his chest like a small child who had glimpsed the outline of the passing bogeyman.

His stern martial scrutiny caught the humped remains of his robot sitting in its nest of wires on the desk. He pensively stared a moment, antenna drawing low. He was scared of so many things without that robot to demonstrate to him what was safe.

Time was a slow beat stretching forwards; as ponderous as the ticking of his bedside clock.

It was a strange position to exist in after being on top of his little kingdom. And he had traded it all in for a beat in his chest.

He knew it was not easy to let go of his former assets, his established persona and his wings and crown to see another day.

It hurt. But it hurt because he was alive.

The feelings, the turmoil...it roused a new kindling flame. He was now free to follow his own missions, his own agenda. He was an Irken who had the sovereignty to dream, even if it meant accepting a heavy penalty.

Gazing from the relative safety of his bed, he gave the room another obsessive inspection.

The simple furniture, with all its boring lines and hard edges, both annoyed and upset him. His base had wrapped around him so well, always giving him that safe sensation that helped him feel cocooned in some way. Every little touch of a panel or button responded to his commands, his personality. He had been part of a symbiotic coalition with his machines, his base, and his computer.

His antenna, primed for any noise - be it benign or antagonistic - perceived the acoustic creaks of someone treading across the landing outside his partially opened door. He kind of hoped someone would pop in and check on him so that he wouldn't have to feel so lonely, but they didn't. And their footfalls retreated until he could no longer hear them.

He took a deep draw of breath; a decision that reminded him of the ache down there. When he felt the tickle of a cough coming on, he pinched his eyes shut until the urge faded.

 _You need to sleep._

He gently nodded to himself at that very simple logic. He knew he wasn't well, and knew how important it was to rest, but the braver part of him insisted that he get up, go out through that door and take control. He needed to do some good old reconnaissance and begin a perimeter check. Then he could focus his energies on anything and everything that might have need of his attention. It would be a suitable distraction from the whirling deluge of emotions that were doing their damndest to keep him immobilized.

And his room was so big! So open! The ceiling seemed to breathe down on him as if it harboured a touch of winter. The only small place he could retreat to was beneath the bed, but he wanted to be brave.

Something tapped on the window behind the purple curtains. He choked out a whimper and pulled the quilt over his head. It was no more than a twig hurtling across the glass pane as it travelled on the wind, but to him it was an intrusive finger knocking to find the entry point. Wanting to come in. Trying to find him.

 _Worm baby! Worm baby!_

 _Shut up shut up!_

The voices fluttered through his mindscape like vipers, as dark and as foul as the shadows capering just beyond the featherlike luminosity of his nightlight.

Something was opening in his head. Instinctively he slammed it shut, often leaning against it in case something nightmarish came bursting out from the other side. It was a nonsensical, to be afraid of those carnal instincts that had _driven_ him through his military career and his life. This inner creature paced like a wild animal penned up in a cage. It wasn't this new environment that upset it so. It was this complete lack of revenge on the Tallest. Of letting things be. Of not destroying those who had robbed Gir of his bright vitality.

This angry part of him was also terrified of the inevitable end he had accepted.

Slowly he dropped the blankets down to his chin and peered over them, cocking his antenna at a sound imagined as he began to slowly rock himself back and forth.

The same unvarying serenity greeted his fraught anxieties.

All this stress he was putting himself through and nothing was even happening!

The clock beside him beat out the seconds like a click-clacking metronome.

If this _was_ freedom, then what was he to do with it?

Shaky and exhausted he sunk back down under his covers, little body succumbing to nervous shakes.

 _What do... humans do in... human places?_ He thought. He really had no idea. He hadn't found the topic worthy of his interest, and now he was frightened of finding out the hard way.

His head dropped against the pillow, the plush doll of Gir suddenly finding a place against his chest as he pressed it almost angrily to him.

He lay slightly inclined so that he could breathe a little easier. It was a position he was now more or less used to.

Sleepily, he watched the merry-go-round of the swirling lights splay imperceptible shapes across the wall and furniture. They were pretty to look at, hypnotic even.

"Com-Computer..." He muttered sleepily, "Lock down all perimeters."

He went limp, eyelids crashing down like shutters. A short ten minutes later he'd come flying out of his sleep in a sightless panic, snorting out a worried squeal as he thrashed out of his blankets.

He felt like he had dropped off the edge of nothing, falling straight down into a swathe of green fire. Flames had rushed in and around him as though the fire had taken on the form of sentient green wraiths.

Usually his dreams liked to carousel around Gir leading him somewhere, taking his hand and well...that was as far as the dreams had ever gone. This time he was encapsulated in an emerald conflagration that was saturated in human screams. He had been surrounded in the same poison they were inflicted with, a green so toxic and so radiant it had hurt to look at. The fluorescence of these strange embers had run up his skin as if he had been drenched in lighter fluid.

 _"Won't the s'ploding hurt?"_

Gir's voice resounded in his head. He too remembered the savagery of the heat. It made him run a hand up the sleeve of his arm in memory. The burning pain had been so awful; he would have thrown his Tallest into the void just to make it stop.

 _''If I can bring the time field around the explosion back up to regular speed it'll fix everything."_

He brought a heavy hand to his head as dizziness marched loosely across his vision.

They were just stupid dreams. They meant nothing.

Every now and then something from his past liked to rear its ugly head as if his past failures had never rested easy in his mind.

His surviving antenna drooped over his face. Gently he pushed it back.

The little clock on his nightstand next to his box of tissues and a bottle of menthol cough medicine read 10:03pm. Every time he shut his eyes, awful nightmares returned as if they all had personal invitations with which to visit. Even the totality of his fatigue could not block them.

Nervously, antenna twitching, eyes looking, he urgently wished to communicate his woes to Gir, his computer, Dib or Clara.

He needed to be at his command console to cathartically remedy himself of these unwanted reservations.

Instead, he had to seek other, poorer solutions to escape the invasion of his own imaginings.

He awkwardly sat up with the doll gripped in his claws, the left hand not making such a good job of it.

It was that Clara – _must_ be - making him feel repentant, and softening his callous sentiments.

The things he had done...

It was an accident. A weapon...gone out of control.

Why oh why did that nightmare have to be? He hadn't thought of it in years. He didn't dwell a whole lot on any of his past mishaps, or explosions, and the hamsters that had gone out of control. Each new mission presented before him were what mattered, not the ones before.

He clutched his head tightly with both claws, cursing his rebellious brain as the doll slumped on the blankets. He took a stronger breath to try and placate the panic, only to encounter a wall there as well. His chest would not expand as if the very air aversely hurt his lungs.

It felt like being on a ship that was losing oxygen. His attempt to push back the asphyxiation only exaggerated those straggly squeaks in his chest.

Coughing helped. He leaned forwards slightly and hacked against the back of his hand.

Dib and Clara were presumably asleep in the next room. The silence was absolute beyond his partly open door, but in that silence he tried to guess at what they might be up to. What they might be doing. What they might be plotting!

But the window! That he would have to open. He needed to breathe.

The former Elite pushed himself against the headboard, bright, panicky fuchsia eyes mostly riveted on the door in case of an anticipated threat to come stealing through. He settled his socked feet on the little steps from his bed and carefully climbed down them. He then walked over to his daybed, climbed those steps and reached the window. Claws fell on the window latch. The curtains he ignored, his head slipping through them.

"Come on, come on!"

The latch was stiff. It hadn't been oiled or used very much, but with a hard wrench from his right hand he opened it, and he sat, chest pressed against the ledge, whistling down cold spring air into his lungs.

Soon his eyes caught the sprawl of stars above him, and he instantly drew back, slamming the window shut. He turned away, the night sky now veiled by his dark purple curtains. On his face was the pure look of horror. The void of space embodied deep loss. He was a wingless bird, unable to take flight with his own kind. But in the gloom of this amputation from the Empire grew certain serenity. He had been released from their demanding expectations. No longer required to follow orders.

He was now a deserter. Just because he had chosen to live.

He closed his eyes, and his inner swaying eased a little.

Moving almost soundlessly, he left the daybed and padded towards the door, antenna judging for those sly sounds on the other side. Cool, sleek claws tapped on the lowermost handle as if to verify its authenticity. With a swift push, he snapped the door home then he stared at it awhile, convinced that the moment he would turn his back, it would burst wide with enemies. So he stood in his little oasis of glowing blue, and waited. Nothing happened.

Slowly he turned and sized up the bed when that feeling of being exposed on all sides caught him again. With wide capricious eyes, he looked around, seeing if there was anywhere he might feel safer. Opposite his bed was a toy chest in one corner of the room. He went round to its other side; found it wasn't too heavy to move, and so he pushed it four feet. Grabbing a blanket and a cushion, he settled himself down into the corner where he was in perfect view of the door. He also felt better positioned, perched as he was, in case of an attack. He hoped to get no bad dreams here, where moments of his past life exhaled out like a poison.

He sat, propped up by the wall, the blue blanket wrapped around his shoulders. It did not keep him very warm.

He dozed more than slept, his reality evaporating and then merging into senseless, dreamy fantasies where something sudden would wake him, and he'd shoot a glance everywhere at once, heart unevenly pounding. Then he'd rock himself to sleep again, arms wrapped around his chest, chin dipping further and further down until it rested heavily on his collarbone.

At around one in the morning, he heard a heavy _clunk_ nearby, and the sound of running water that seemed to be coming from the walls. Sleepily, he half-roused, his mind yet to place him. "G-Gir? What a-are you do-doing?" Gir must be up to no good. He wanted to sit with him on the sofa, and watch cartoons so as to avoid the bottled panic of his nightmares, and the feeling of no escape.

He cracked upon his eyelids, and sat up with a jolt when he came to the punching realization that he was not at home – that he was still in this bedroom.

He heard the rusty squeak of a faucet, followed by the flush of the toilet, and then the pad of feet across the landing as someone went back to bed. After that, all sounds faded to a thick, entombing silence, and he was imprisoned once again by complete isolation.

The cold had sunk into him during the long hours, causing a strange medley of fits, exhaustive shivers and the sweats.

That sweet, suave voice butted through, as if, for all his efforts, he had never really kept the door shut on his militarism. _What is the great Zim doing? Sitting here, like an itsy bitsy little weakling? Waiting, for his enemy to do the thinking for him? Pathetic! Take control, you dumb worm baby!_

The summoning lifted him to his shaky feet, his eyes locked on the door with the same intensity that he used when observing high grade defensives. He was much better able to pick his feet up, and walked without stumbling to the door. The blanket about his shoulders slipped down like silk, ending up on the carpet.

Using the secondary pulley-system attached to the handle, he pushed down, and the door clicked open. He shoved gently against the wood and the door swung wide on silent hinges.

The landing was cloaked in inky darkness that spawned yet more potential menace but the light of the ochre moon poured through like candlelight from the little bathroom window, casting a silvery, ghostly glow on the top banister rail. The brooding dresser stood like a sentry against the far wall. Zim baulked a moment, suddenly terrified of the absence of sound; colour; and regulated familiarity.

The greying-point of his antenna tipped all the way up; sternly trying to listen to the unmistakable sounds of a crafty approach; for the strafe of enemy advancement. His own swallowing was loud in the din of silence.

He wanted to hear Gir's noisy cartoons: the loud ambience of his playfulness that drove away this isolation.

Restively, Zim's claws clacked together in front of his chest as he spared a moment to look dubiously across at the partially opened white door on the landing. In there, Clara and Dib were nested together, sleeping in their beds. Consequentially he felt unwelcome, as though their very presence would oppose his. Trudging in there, unbidden, in the dark, would scare them.

He went over to the blue door. Stupidly he reached for the handle, but of course it was too high for him to do anything about it. It was the one room he had not seen, and it got on his nerves that he could not see what was in there. He gormlessly stared at it a moment or two before moving on again.

Antenna nervously trembling up and down in a twitchy, confused way, he started his sly way across the landing to the top of the stairs. Going down was a problem. Getting back up again was perhaps too much cardio for his body to cope with. And he did actually want to cling on to the life Membrane had gifted him with. He knew not exactly how the scientist had done it, but was wise enough to know that it could not have been easy.

He just wanted to check the primary doors down there. Make sure everything was locked and secure. He did it every night before retiring down to the lower levels of his base. He never left it up to Gir, and he couldn't leave it up to Clara or Dib either.

Zim reached for the wooden bars of the banister rail, and gripped tightly with his right as he took each step one at a time.

It was an awfully long way down, the stairs better made for giants than little Irkens. The old wood, even though it was felted with carpet, still produced these long, tired creaks with each tread; cleaving the silence with every step.

His left hand tingled with unwelcome numbness, and he wasn't able to grip so well with it even after flexing it a few times. Likewise, his foot on the same side couldn't manage his full weight, and the tips of his toes were sparking with pins and needles.

Halfway down, he paused, wary of a noise his antenna had caught, and he stood, as tense as a cord of wire.

Sweat made his pink starry pyjama shirt stick like glue to his lean abdomen and the bandages on his chest. His eyes glanced up, down, and around. The open darkness at the bottom of the stairs offered no opponents.

Zim stretched down with his left foot first, bad choice, and before he knew, it buckled under him and he went tumbling the rest of the way down with _clonks_ and _thumps_. He found himself lying on his front at the bottom, his head speedily whirling with dark, murky feathers. His heartbeat lost its rhythm for a few moments and he was sure then and there that he'd really messed up.

Gradually his vision cleared as if he had just come out of water, and the world came back to him.

He edged himself up onto his elbows, then his knees, wiping at something suddenly wet from the corner of his lips. He looked down at the oily green smeared across the back of his wrist. He'd probably just spilt his lip.

Eyes screwing shut a moment; he angrily hit his left leg twice for betraying him.

The pulsing azure glow of his external tube reassured him that all was well with his PAK at least. He couldn't afford to bash that about.

He woozily looked back up the see-sawing stairs, trying so hard to listen for footsteps. Had they heard him fall? Maybe they were just too tired. They had exhaustively taken care of him, and had run on fumes for the majority of the week.

Zim picked himself up, knowing he had earned himself some new bruises that would show up later as testimony to this incident.

Failing machines he could kick at, and fix. The nuisances of a malfunction never lasted long. As he rested, leaning one hand against the wall, he wondered how he was going to endure the malfunctions of his own body. Kicking and scratching at what hurt didn't help, even if it did wonders for machines.

"Computer?" He asked into the dark confines of the hallway, knowing that his request wouldn't work, but doing it anyway because it felt normal.

Eyes compulsively sweeping to and fro, he limped through the expanse of the hallway that felt about as lonesome as a cathedral. There was little to accompany him except the striking ticks of the old grandfather clock as it sternly stood in full residence against the wall.

Zim took in a phlegmy breath and fought the brutish need to cough. His claws parted from each other so that they could commence their habituated fist-clenching. The front door to the outside, prim and old fashioned in its decor, was intact. He counted the locks, one of them being a simple bolt, the other consisting of two locks.

It _was_ locked, wasn't it? There were too many awful things subsisting out there, and he had to make sure the door would keep them out.

He overviewed the area at the door and its lintel for places where he could install nodules for a force field. He gave the area a nod of approval. Yes, there was room for them.

He padded into the hushed kitchen, almost taking a turn when something burbled and clonked among the kitchen cabinets. Dizziness rose like the tide as he approached complete blackout – then he realized with colossal relief that it was the fridge freezer making those noises, and hot water running through the pipes that would reach the radiators.

Sweat ran down his forehead and into his eyes: stinging them. The places around his vision were pulling away, becoming grey and feathery. He forcibly pushed on, and walked over to the main dinner table where he located a stool. Settling his slim trembling claws upon its laminated wood, he started pushing it along the tiled flooring. It produced low, shunting noises as he laboured against it. He manoeuvred it from the kitchen, across the lintel of the doorway and across the hall. Once it was shoved against the front door, he allowed himself a terse break. His shuddering would not quit. More nuisance blood dribbled out of his mouth. It went away with a rub of his pyjama sleeve.

Grasping the top of the stool, he was about to work his way up it when the clock chimed the hour. He screamed: the noise pealing out of him as if he had held it in for an eternity: right antenna flying all the way up in a cartoonish way.

In his mind his PAK legs shot out of their ports; rising like javelins above and around him, assembling like protective arms that shielded him from harm.

The dinging of the grandfather clock eventually fell back into an intimidating silence, but only after it had clanged and dinged about eleven times. Then its horrible ticking resumed.

Zim was breathing out in stucco bursts as he stood crouched by the door in his illuminated little halo of blue.

His brutal shaking was off the charts. He felt unattached to the floor – to gravity – as if he was floating away on the string of a balloon.

He hatefully eyed the clock again for a long minute, daring it to mock him a second time, of which it did not.

Antenna pressed low, bloodied mouth jerking as he breathed hard, he waited. Everything was quiet around him, but now he trusted this silence less.

Reassigning himself to the task, he gingerly got up on the stool to access the lock-bolt. It was of simple iron. He had had one installed on his front door too.

He snapped it out of its slot to make sure it was working as it should, then snapped it home. But no. Had to make sure it still worked sufficiently. This was part of his perimeter check.

He slid the bolt back out of its slide, then back in.

 _Yes. Okay. It's locked. Stop it._

 _No. One more time._

 _Just to make sure._

The blot slid out. Then he slid it back in.

 _Okay now. It's enough. It's real. It's solid._

 _No no NO! Check again, damn you soldier!_

The sweat was trickling heavily down his neck, causing a wet sheen on his collarbone. He adjusted his pyjama neck collar as he shifted the bolt out of its lock.

 _That's it._

 _It's locked!_

 _Leave it be!_

In went the bolt, but he pushed it back out again, convinced that it needed a re-check.

 _It's done now. Go check the backdoor and their hangar – I mean their measly attic! And they have so many windows!_

He again performed the compulsion of pushing the lock back in then out. He tried to look for faults in the bar of metal. Could a push on the other side snap that? Maybe he could reinforce it.

The ticking of the grandfather clock, presiding behind him like an expectant Tallest, made him feel all the more miserable.

Then a sharp: "What on Earth are _you_ doing?"

Zim spun round on the stool and nearly slid off it, chest heaving, and eyes so wide they looked like they might tumble out of his head. His deafness had made it harder to pick up on surprises such as this. Clara was standing there, arms open in consternation. Her honeyed hair, usually flouncy and well brushed, was scattered and unkempt. Her eyes, stern above the tired blemishes, were interrogating him for answers.

Those PAK legs could not branch out. He was laid open. No weaponry. No tools. All he had left was sharp language and a narrowed countenance.

He could feel the shivers work their way through him as if he had his claws jammed on a live wire.

"Well?" She asked again, her tone a little gentler this time.

"I amm... Z-Zim is..." His words came out all slurry, the debilitating stutters threatening again to smear his dignity. He took a breath: forced himself to slow down a little. "...Just CHECKING your fallible se-security is all! Don't you have a place... to... uh...be? Off with you now Clara girl! And don't jump up on me like that again!"

"Zim, the doors are already locked, like they are every night. You can indulge us in a little trust! Why didn't you come and wake me if you're worried?"

"Wake _you_? Why do I have to seek permission from _you?"_

"Zim, that isn't what I meant!"

"I don't have to listen to yo-ou anyway, and I don't wa-want to!"

"Zim!" Her sharp rebuke made his antenna snap downwards in aggression. "Do you not realize how unwell you are? You think this is a good idea, risking your health like this, after everything we've been through, after everything we've worked towards? You can't wander around like this!"

"We're going to have a problem then, aren't we?" He said hoarsely, eyeing her from hooded eyes.

Clara didn't retaliate straight away. Instead she eyed him up and down, noticing the blood on the fleece of his sleeve, the bright wet shine on his exposed skin, and the jerky way he was looking at her. "I know how hard this is for you." She said more softly. "But you have no reason to worry. Let me take you back to your room."

He cringed. Those voices, screaming into a vindictive orchestra: _You're a worm-baby! Worm-baby! WORM-BABY!_

"No." He told her.

She looked away a moment, looking spent and exasperated. She then kneaded her forehead with one hand as if recollecting her energy for this.

"It's gone eleven. You need sleep. I need sleep." She paused, looking him directly so that he had little choice but to acknowledge her. "Please, stop being stubborn, at least for a few days until you feel more at home."

"I'm not your worm-baby."

"I never said you were. Look. I'm tired and you're exhausting yourself. We can continue this fight tomorrow."

He awkwardly dropped down from the stool so that his inner wobbling wouldn't end up throwing him off. "Look, you Clara sir!" And he pointed antagonistically at her. "You think I don't know what you're scheming?"

"Scheming?"

"You're not ordering me around anymore! I'm done with it!" He shouted it from the border of his own pain: of how haunted he still was from all the days and nights spent lying in a sick bed. Better to forsake these feelings. Surely now these humans would change. And forsake _him_.

And perhaps, if he pushed her just enough, he might see just what she was underneath and if she truly meant what she said and did. How could someone be so genuine without harbouring an inner darkness?

He also said it to keep himself from tears. She had this effortless way of lifting up his armour and disarming him. It was hard to match such villainy. Her selfless acts always confused him. Could their friendship be genuine? He wasn't sure and feared otherwise. He didn't deserve anyone's love.

She did not reply, at least, not straight away. It was clear that he had hurt her.

He waited, suspecting a great long monologue of why he shouldn't do that and why he mustn't behave like this and so on and so forth.

She reached towards him with her hand, palm up. He got an echo of a moment in the professor's lab: of how she had offered to take his hand.

Where were the reprimands he had been ready for? The steady stream of lectures?

He didn't know what to do. What did her offering mean?

Confused, stuck in the spotlight to make a decision, he hesitantly reached out, swallowing hard, and placed his hand in hers. Maybe now she'd punish him.

Her hand engulfed his as she squeezed it with maternal warmth.

"I'd never do anything to hurt you. And if I ask something of you, Zim, it's to protect you. I know this transition is hard. And you can hate me, if it makes it easier, but I will look out for you. I recognise the torment in your eyes. We've both been pushed into corners for a long part of our lives. You want to believe in freedom but you're worried it's going to dissolve the moment you trust in it."

Clara gave him a pained smile, a smile he recognised. Then she let his hand go. The departure of it hurt him terribly.

She was genuine.

How could he have been so stupid?

He did not normally pause and consider others. But in a moment of widening his scope, he fathomed why she understood. She had been in a similar situation; out of a routine orphanage, and placed into a stranger's house and encouraged to think poisonous thoughts.

The inexplicable realization: the only thing she had ever wanted was his returning affection. She admired him for being him. For being brave. For shouldering the hurt but looking ahead. Of course she wanted him to be happy and comfortable here. She wanted to learn more about his legacy, and had never found the right timing to ask.

She took a step back, her eyes wounded. It appeared as though she meant to leave him there.

He fiercely clung to her leg before she had time to make that decision. Clara paused, a little nervous when he could adapt to a different emotional transition.

And emotionally, he was a mess.

A soldier, trying not to be a soldier.

He did not know what to be.

Once perfectly at home in solitude: now terrified of it.

No mission to keep things simple. Nothing for him to manipulate. No easy method of control. And still, he had compulsions that had to be acted upon.

He wanted to let go, and didn't know how.

Trapped in a body that was no longer reliable.

His subservience to his military regimes had mostly likely been a drain on him over time. She did not really know what he had done, and what the full extent of his duties had involved, but she knew enough that some of the things he had done must have been terrible. Military men usually came home after a war suffering for the rest of their lives with PTSD; forever haunted by the things they had done once the immediate duty of keeping them cold and indifferent was over.

He bitterly snorted at her in confused, angry distress when she began to peel his arms off her, but he relaxed the moment she drew him into her arms. His smooth skin was cold and wet with icy perspiration that had soaked through his pjs, and his palsy made him rattle continually.

"We'll check the locks together." She said. "But I am going to have to put my foot down. If you're still restless, you're going to sleep with us. You've got one last chance, honey. And that's all you're getting."

He muffled something to angrily demonstrate his aversion of this plan, and it didn't sound like it was in English.

Like he wanted to be harboured between the two of them; subjected to their stinky smells, loud snores, and their farts and fidgets!

Clara let him go and turned towards the kitchen. She flicked on a light switch as she went which turned on the main ceiling bulb. Zim watched, duly startled. They had to manually turn on the lights? He sighed in exasperation. It was another job to add to his vast list of things to work on.

"See?" She gestured apathetically at the lock on the backdoor. "All shut up tight."

Zim nodded, but the look on his narrowing face indicated that he was unimpressed. "Nothing will warn you of an intrusion. I can work on one." He added, trying to be helpful rather than forceful. "Do you have a panic room?" He asked after a barking cough. "Is that what the blue door is for?"

"Panic room? Oh no, we have nothing like that." Clara gave the door another look, his suspicions working on her own anxieties.

She heard a sudden clack of claws on the linoleum and sharply looked around. Zim was sitting on the floor, breathing harder, as if something had just given way and he had crumpled on the spot.

He was looking gormlessly ahead in wounded surprise.

She knelt in front of his glassy stare and felt the corner of his head, and then his left hand, both of which were suddenly icy cold. She knew how hard the first night was going to be for him, but refusing to rest was doing the creature's body no favours. "Zim, this won't do."

"Go-got to get stronger." He said with a guttural choke.

"I know but not like this. Pushing yourself isn't the way to do it."

"I don't kn-know any other way!"

"And I suppose everything the Professor taught you went right out the window, did it?"

"Window...?"

She gave out a sigh. He was never very good at understanding humour. Clara lifted him up and hugged him against her chest. "I'll fix up something to help you sleep. You like cartoons, right?"

"I guess so."

She sat him on the sofa, propping his glowing PAK with cushions and wrapped him in a soft blue blanket from the side cupboard. Then she took a closer look at the blood on his mouth. "Looks like you split your lip somehow. I'm really angry with you, you know. But I know shouting at you won't really help."

"Clara." He said softly, eyes whisking down in shame, but in shame of earning her disappointment. "I'm really...really..."

She tapped him on the place where the bridge of his nose would be. "Were you about to apologize?" She asked with a smile.

He looked back with a nervous half smile. "No. Of course not."

Leaving him to watch cartoons from the mid 1960's, she went back into the kitchen to boil the kettle and stir in a batch of chamomile. She was relieved when she came back to see that he hadn't moved. He was leaning into the cushions, watching the antics of the characters on the screen from sleepy eyes.

"Here. Drink what you can, but you must take this cough syrup."

There was a dark stroke of resentment in his gaze when he saw the measuring cup of gooey orangey cough medicine next to the steamy mug of chamomile. He picked it up from the tray and swallowed it down just to get it over with. Clara put the mug on the side table and slid Zim onto her lap. She admittedly anticipated a snort of annoyance, but he willingly relaxed against her with no crafty pretences. It was as if he had just wanted the company.

"Dib. Where is that boy?"

"In bed, sleeping, like a sensible person."

"Is he okay?" He asked.

"Yes, just tired. Like you."

His mind was getting pretty woolly when he had a sudden and very nasty thought, trapped as he was under the helm of his imagination – an imagination that stirred up rough, angry waves that beat at his shores.

What if he was still in the coffin of his autodoc, and all this was ALL a dream as he slept inside a coma as the autodoc travelled through space to reach its final destination? The Professor... Clara, and Dib. What if there were conjured fantasies as his vitals slipped towards single digits? He wanted to purge this awful thought. What if Dib had never left the hospital, and never taken him out of his tomb?

She reached out, and stroked the side of his head. Her touch was real. But dreams could make things real, so much so that it was hard to tell the difference. It would explain the steady feeling of suffocation as the oxygen levels dropped to zero. It would explain the very real authenticity of gradual organ failure.

What if all his symptoms were simply what was happening to his dying body?

She stopped stroking his head in case additional contact might just upset him again. The furrows under his eyes were no longer quite so creased, and his tension had gone.

Clara knew he was frustrated. She had watched him test his limbs from time to time in the lab, as if his body was a complex component that had to be re-evaluated, rediscovered. His wiry muscles should recondition over time, and she knew it was the first thing he'd actively tackle. Once he was more comfortable in his own body, she knew he would demolish his reservations about them. He was already willing to change. Just not all at once. But he carried this air of disgrace about him. Afraid even, to reach out and welcome what was newly given to him.

She had been like that with her new step parents. She hadn't trusted them, in fact believed they had an ulterior motive as to why they had chosen her and not the 'prettier' girls. And it was hard to erase that feeling of failure. His eyelids lowered, and he muttered something along the lines of 'computers locking down all perimeters.' Then he limply dropped against her as sleep took him. Any trace of frightened tension melted away, allowing his body to soften. During the weeks spent in the lab, he had slept in someone's company.

The cartoons playing in the background seemed to give Zim some sort of secure ambience. It was hard to believe that an alien soldier was capable of finding solace from animated caricatures.

The cold in his hands signified inadequate circulation and her worry deepened. Maybe leaving him to rest in the bedroom alone for the first time hadn't been a very smart idea, especially when his sleep was at times disturbed by fits of these aggressive dyspnoeic episodes.

She let him sleep for a good hour in her arms, worried that the moment she made a move to go upstairs, she would frighten him awake. The chill in his hands was improving, and his shivering had melted away entirely. She did not want his midnight wanderings to become a habit, and treating him like a captive wasn't the solution. He needed more self-control; time to look at himself kindly, and accept a little more patience. No doubt he was better equipped to handle less personal problems, and deal only with the complaints of the inorganic, such as his machines, and the algorithms of data, and the missions he undertook.

Tonight they had allowed him some freedom, and he had only meandered around, lost, confused and anxious, thinking perhaps that diving under the helm of control would banish all other problems that were less feasible to administer. But this wayward method he clung to would only hurt his convalescence. It was a cyclical condition that needed to be stopped.

There was a gentle tap on the open lounge door. She looked over to see Dib standing there, looking a little disorientated and shaken. He must have woken up, finding himself alone, only to further his confusion at finding them both gone. "What's going on? Is he okay?"

Clara winced at him apologetically. "He couldn't sleep. I found him examining the locks on our front door."

"W-Why?" He staggered drunkenly over, half asleep, and with a ton of adrenaline raging through his system. He looked like someone who had just escaped from a bad dream. "Is he in pain?"

"No, no, Dib! It's not that. Imagine if you were in someone else's home, and having to relinquish control. It's not easy for him, that's all."

"I know that." He said bitterly. "Those stairs. How did he manage to get down them on his own?"

"I... I don't know."

He looked distraught, and not altogether happy. "Why does he have to go and be such an idiot?" He whispered under his breath. "Thank god you found him. What made you notice that he wasn't in his room? Why didn't you _tell_ me?"

Clara shrugged. "I thought... I thought I heard someone shriek. It woke me up. I went into his room to check on him, and found the bed empty. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. You've been so tired."

Zim's eyelids trembled as he started to inch towards consciousness. When those brilliant magenta eyes peeked out from between his eyelids; swerving over to see what was going on, Dib started for a moment. Then, shrugging off his anger, he came and stooped over the Irken. "Zim, I'm taking you back to bed."

"You're all h-here?" He croaked, fetching worried looks between them.

"Yes, we are." He nodded at his fiancée to relinquish him. She was evidently reluctant to give up her warm little bundle, but she tenderly passed him to Dib.

The same nervous tension returned, and he could feel Zim's bony body falling into a light paroxysm. It was very likely that his muscles were just cramping from sustained exertion.

Keeping his arms snugly wrapped around him, he carefully and methodically went up the stairs and back into his room, the glowing blue from his PAK illuminating the way. The room gave strong evidence of his restless wanderings. The coverlet was all rumpled, and a blue blanket had been left abandoned on the carpet.

This foolish excursion of his underscored Zim's existential anxieties as he struggled to cope with so many sudden changes. Being weak and dependent on their care was the chief reason for this continual distress.

It was not a great start. And without proper rest, his frail body was overly exhausted; stuck as it was on tireless overdrive since this morning. His father had given him sedatives in case such issues like this occurred, but Dib was loath to drug him.

"Okay space jerk. Safe and warm in bed again." He sat him down, fluffed up the pillow for him, and encouraged the stubborn bastard to lie down. The pyjamas under his arms were cold with sweat, and the shakes were disconcerting to feel. "You didn't fall down the stairs, did you, Zim?"

The shock of such a fall would be enough to do damage. Or maybe he'd been smart enough to go down them one at a time, but Dib was duly aware of his accident track record and his low pain threshold.

"N-no, of course not." He answered this tiredly, his right antenna limp; not really even trying to pick up on the verbal communications sent down by his human companion.

"This is the second time we're tucking you in. Is the bed _that_ uncomfortable?"

"S-Sorry Dib stink."

Dib felt his heart break. "No, no don't apologize. It's okay." He eased the fleece quilt and blanket over him and slipped a little cushion under his legs for circulatory alleviation. Zim moaned, frustrated perhaps at these uncontrollable paroxysms coursing through him. "It'll pass soon, Zim. It'll pass. You shouldn't have got yourself into such a state."He breathed out an extra angry sigh, mostly to make sure Zim knew how darn mad he was with him. "Are you in _any_ pain? Is that why you can't sleep?"

"Would you stop with your panicking panic, human? I can go wh-where I damn well please." He noticed that heavy, leery way Dib was glaring at him. "I don't hurt." He said at last, knowing that was what he wanted to hear. Once he admitted this, the human's gaze softened, as did his posture. You could almost say his strings had been cut.

"Good. I'm glad." He pulled up a chair, a stethoscope in one hand. Zim watched him from hooded eyes, and even to Dib it was obvious how plain the relief was on his face when he realized he was staying. He was too proud a creature to admit that he wanted company.

As if happy to shake off duty to another, Zim closed his eyes and turned to rest on his side. Before long he was fast asleep. His shivering took longer to settle. Now that he had well and truly worn himself out, Dib was sure he'd sleep well into the morning.

He sat with his dark and brooding thoughts as he twiddled the instrument in his hands.

 _It's all right for you Zim. You were unconscious through most of your heart attack. You don't know what it was like from my perspective. You don't know what I had to go through. What I had to see. And how much of it still haunts me._

He placed his elbow on the edge of the quilt, watching Zim's chest swell up and then down as he rested his chin on his hand.

"Why do you do this to me, you bastard?" He whispered. "If you knew how long you had left, you wouldn't even think of having mini adventures in the middle of the night. But I won't tell you. Because I want you to prove my dad wrong. I know statistics and facts never weighed you down and they never will." He sighed again, his eyelids dropping low.

He could not deny the surprise he felt at Zim achieving so much in one day but some things had to be taken slowly. From now on, he would have to put soft reins on the Irken, and devise a better method for bedtime. This kind of thing could not happen again.

 _I'll put you on oxygen for the rest of the night, I think_. He thought. _It'll give your heart a rest._

He was fortunate when he cupped the plastic mask over the Irken's nose and mouth without waking him. Zim was perhaps used to these nightly ministrations, or was so dead tired that even this did not disturb him. Dib turned the valve to thirty, and heard the responding whistle of pressurized air winding down the ventilated tubes and into the nozzle of the mask. Zim's chest rose as he took his first breath of improved oxygen. Whatever strain was present in his chest was eased.

He reached under the quilt, found his bony hand and lovingly squeezed it.

There wasn't much else he could do for him now but hope the twelve hourly medicinal doses would keep him ticking over, like oil in an old engine.

Zim squeaked in his sleep. Bad dreams perhaps?

He crossed his arms in front of his chest, intending to stay and nap on the chair. There was no way he was going to let this little alien get up and wander around now.

He wasn't sure how long he'd closed her eyes for when Zim snapped awake, breathing in long, nasally wheezes. His eyes were impossibly big, his mouth wide open as if he had been about to scream.

It took a second or two for him to recognise Dib.

"It's okay butterball, it's okay. You're safe. I'm here." He rubbed his little shoulder blades, their delicate composition always reminding him of fragile bird bones. Such a weight they used to carry before the PAK was lightened of its load.

Why was he having all these bad dreams? Maybe the move here had triggered some mental trauma, and it was affecting Zim subconsciously.

Soldiers, he guessed, had their traumas.

Zim's panicky stammering came out in suppurating moans and whines. He coddled him until his perennial shakes eased and his worried mantras stopped. He did not seem to notice the plastic dome over his mouth, but he was certainly enjoying the extra oxygen.

Gently he guided him to lie more inclined, tilting him just slightly so that less fluid could bog his lungs. The hollow blemishes sitting under his eyes like half-moon crescents exemplified his atrophy.

"Go back to sleep, Zim. I'm here."

Being there for him seemed to blunt his terrors.

Dib did not know if he would ever gain back any real strength. The injuries to his personification were perhaps just as grave as the damage in his body.

He was still haunted of things not so long ago; of those ticking moments as his little life started to ebb away. Of holding his unresponsive body with a tube down his throat, and a chest decorated in telemetry leads. He was condemned to watch frail little lines skip across the ECG screen: of watching the dying ebb that still had somehow managed to limp along.

Dib looked down at his prone form, recognising the new strength that had risen slowly in his eyes earlier that day when Clara had led him down the laboratory corridor but it conflicted harshly with the existential horror on his face at the dinner table.

His father's sullen forecast he had given him, as if the sum of Zim's life was just another calculation, played on his mind a lot. And on top of that they didn't know how well he would cope living here.

He'd learn the truth soon enough.


	3. From the Ashes

**Saving Zim: Epilogue by Dib07**

 _ **Summary:**_

 _When you had it all. When old age forces you to change._

 _When life isn't what you'd imagined._

 _When you aren't prepared to be so powerless._

 _When a soldier's undetermined future remains his greatest fear._

 _ **Disclaimer:**_

 _I do not own the IZ characters. However this story and this idea is mine._

 _Cover art beautifully made by_ _Truekrisstianity!_ _All credit goes to her,_ _please do not use without his permission, thank you :)_

 _ **Warnings:**_

 _Character death. Character angst. Blood. Swearing. Gary._

* * *

 **Thanks to Polaroidfox's critique I have tried to improve this story by removing/cutting out content in all chapters to make the story less slow, and I've also removed the lighter (fluffier) parts as suggested throughout the 7 chapters. Burakku's Shadow also admitted this story is a bit rambly, so by cutting out content this should improve the story overall!**

 **Sorry if parts seem a bit scrambled now. It's hard removing things without causing some dissonance with the story.**

 **Scenes removed:**

 **Dib removes Zim's bandages**

 **Breakfast scene**

 **hypodermic injection**

 **Dib/Clara moment**

 **Cute Zim and Dib scenes**

* * *

 **CHAPTER 3:** **From the Ashes**

 _'The only journey is the journey within.'_

 _Rainer Maria Rilke_ **  
**

 _-x-_

By God, he _knew_ what he had seen.

"You're fucking crazy." The cops had said, "Aliens. Yeah. And I suppose the reason my wife took off was because of 'aliens' too huh?"

-x-

He adhered to the usual routine after work. He picked up flowers from Roses 'en All, usually grabbing the ones that perked his attention the fastest, paid the florist at the desk, and then proceeded to Oldrise Cemetery. Sometimes he walked there. Sometimes he drove if it was a sunny day. Sometimes he didn't go there at all.

It surprised him how quickly they had rebuilt the innards of the city, replacing burnt shops and destroyed homes with cheaper accommodations, almost as if they were trying to iron out the tragedy like one would wash out a bad taste in the mouth. And people were stupid. They forgot.

But he wouldn't forget.

There was a forecast of light rain later today. Clouds cast a thickening gloom across the sky, turning it a slate grey. He stood over the tiny grave, and dumped the flowers on the grassy mound. He stood there awhile, chewing on his resentment. Sometimes he hung around for ten minutes. Other times, only five. Then he'd tip his hat at the grave, and proceed on home. But the resentment stayed, as painful as a kidney stone. And it followed him all the way home.

Out of the cold and wind, he stood in his study, fully clothed in his outdoor frockcoat and fedora. On his desk were a few burnt ornaments that he had scavenged from the ashes of the monster's home. These alien artefacts: bits of a puzzle, taught him not much at all of their original purpose, but it did not stop him from picking them up, one at a time, and studying them. One of these pieces was part of the Voot's turbine engine, but he guessed that it belonged to parts of some exotic weapon.

It was of no surprise to him that Dib's sustained absence aligned with that of the alien's disappearance, and the event of the implosion that had destroyed the creature's home. Maybe something had gone wrong: a nuclear weapon perhaps that had caused this mishap or, it was perhaps the work of an FBI official. And Dib hadn't returned to work, even though he had seen the gaunt man haunt the grocery market. He tried to remain hidden while tailing him. There were pinkish marks on the young man's chin, hands and neck. The marks you got when you scalded yourself with boiling hot water.

He'd tried to follow him home on two separate occasions. Too many other cars got between him and the blue Toyota, and the old man driving in front didn't know how to accelerate when the lights turned green. Dib had turned left, and by the time Gary had turned that same bend, his car had gone.

The second time, he had disappeared into the long winding road leading up to the famous Professor Membrane laboratories, and security kept Gary on the sidelines. Dib would stay in the complex for days on end, and Gary couldn't sit and wait in his car for that long. It was a bust.

His other option, rather than sulking around, waiting for an opportunity, was to break into the manager's officer after work-hours and hunt through colleague files for a home address. But Cliff, his boss, kept all records in a locked filing cabinet.

He eased himself down on his desk chair, and picked up the smooth, soft pliable piece of material recovered from the alien's home. Despite the blackened scorch marks there were riveting glimmers of purple as he turned it beneath the lamp light in his long fingers.

Aliens.

Whenever you mentioned the word, people just rolled their eyes because, you know, that word belonged in the same category as wizards, unicorns, and let's face it, fucking magic. If something unbelievable happened, and it couldn't be explained, of _course_ it was chalked up to 'aliens' because it was easier to blame it on something mythical and supernatural. Back in historical times, if anything mad or weird happened, people blamed such events on 'the gods.'

He turned the scrap of material over in his hands. It wasn't plastic, but neither was it metal. It was a perfect blend of both, making it slightly flexible and smooth, but ever so strong. He had taken a hammer to it once, and he hadn't been able to dent it. Putting it in the oven for two hours at over 220 degrees Celsius didn't tarnish it either.

How could they not know that their city harboured an ALIEN?!

HOW?

Completely covering the right wall of his study were newspaper clippings, magazine photo clips, and some interviews he had printed from the internet.

One of the top headlines read:

'LINCOLN CITY FIRE: EVACUATION UNSUCCESSFUL. HUNDREDS DEAD.'

Another headline read: 'REASON UNEXPLAINED. COULD BE ARSON, SAYS POLICE.'

An article taken from a spokesman went: _"Possibly could have been the radioactive sewage tunnels under the city. They always were a bit leaky."_

But it had been no ordinary city-wide fire. The fire had been a toxic green blob the size of a small town, and its explosion had taken out the middle of the city. His son had been in that radius. And now he was dead.

A young life, taken.

And they blamed it on radioactive sewage.

He had never believed the official reports. At first he was convinced that it was some military experiment gone awry. Lincoln had a military base to the south that happened to go untouched during the event. But then he saw this purple dot racing over the sky sometimes, and he read an article in a journal that stated clearly that a creature of unknown origin had fallen through a roof, straight into an expo on 'alien life.' Anyone who read the article had pushed it off as a hoax, saying that it was to further their own expo's publicity, but Gary's alert dials were tuned all the way up.

The fire had been green.

Reports of something flying into the expanding blob just before the fateful explosion.

That wild thing with the green skin and red bug eyes; altering itself to look vaguely human. It was a wolf in sheep's clothing.

Four prongs of pulsing metal had elongated upwards from behind it like demonic appendages.

Gary took off his hat and placed it next to the assortment of alien debris; alien debris he was not ready to give up to the FBI.

It was pristine in his mind, that night in the rain. He'd been buying coffee after work. The little monster had bumped into him, as if, on regular occasions, it liked to walk amongst humanity just for the fun of it. Its eye contact had peeled off in the wet, and had floated on a puddle. Something ghoulish and red had peered up at him, and it was then, he knew.

The size of it had surprised him, and yes, he had been thusly galvanised at how well it emulated human speech. There was nothing to betray an accent, nothing to suggest anything deviant. If they had met in another country, speaking a different language, he was positive that this beast could have imitated it and any dialect with uncanny ease.

Gary's greatest horror and surprise came last of all, and it made him realize just what sort of intelligent being he was dealing with.

After its wig had come off, revealing a long, floppy antenna and a shortened one that was misshapen: its ugly feelers making him think of crawling ants and woodlice, he had chased it all the way to a chain link fence. He remembered the pretty gleaming iridescence it left behind, looking like toxic liquids almost.

Its voice, perfectly eloquent, shouted scratchily back at him in remarkable confidence. Then, as if Gary had become the unwilling participant to a sci-fi horror movie, long metal arms grew out of this pod on its back, making the creature look three times more intimidating in size and prowess.

Yet, for all the aggressiveness it had established, it merely stood there, as if the heavy daub of green on its side had taken a sudden toll.

Gary had lunged at it. It was stupid, brave, maybe, but plenty stupid. Its movements were quick, and the tip of his closed umbrella had pinned it, but he should have maintained his violence, and not gone straight for his phone. The alien took advantage of the distraction, and hit his phone with one of its spider prosthetics.

He felt that at any moment, the creature would stick him with one of those sword-arms and kill him.

Then the beast slipped out of his grip, melted a hole through the bottom of the fence with those same synthetic attachments, and stumbled into the dark where Gary could not reach. He had tried getting over the fence, saw the wire barbing the top, and raced round the building, phone to his ear as he called for the police.

The blood it had left behind was soon washed away by the rain, hardly leaving much evidence of anything when a cop finally turned up to give him an abrasive look reserved especially for 'those crazy hooligans.'

It had been the same little creature that had caused the explosion 22 years ago. Had to be. _Must_ be.

And... and Dib was defending it.

By God, he _knew_ what he had seen.

"You're fucking crazy." The cops had said, rolling their eyes at him. "Aliens. Yeah. And I suppose the reason my wife took off was because of 'aliens' too huh?"

The ridicule.

The boy buried six feet under.

Catherine crying against his arm.

He was only six years old.

No one had answered to that death and a hundred more.

Maybe the cops, his peers, even Dib were right; it wasn't an extraterrestrial being that had done this, and he was merely looking for an answer, something to blame to help ease the pain. But the more he researched, the more he looked, the more he saw.

The city officials had done a poor job evacuating the citizens, not taking the green blob seriously until it was too late, but his fury remained centred on the one who had caused it. Because in his heart, he knew it was that monster called 'Zim.'

Such a little thing had done so much damage.

And he was alone in this fight. Thanks to his public outburst on Bishop Street, and then at the office, he was labelled as a joke; a 'crazy' person and a fucking 'fanatical.' His credibility had meant everything to him, and now the little green demon had taken that away from him too.

He put the piece of material back down on the desk amongst the others, and stared at these archaeological finds as if he could gleam the answers from them. He would find Dib's home address. It wasn't hard. He just needed a bit more luck. That sort of information wasn't up for grabs on the internet, and that man didn't exactly post personal information on his blogging sites. He'd even tried buttering up Gaz, his sister, to learn more about her brother. She soon however grew wary of all his attention on Dib and now avoided him.

It was no loss.

The question: what was the next step should he find where that man lived? His habits had changed since the destruction of the monster's home. So he _could_ be harbouring it. But this was just a guess. The thing might be dead, and on ice, or it had moved on, its lair compromised and it needed a new one.

Gary's initial decision was to capture the creature if he could and give it up to the FBI. But that wasn't good enough.

It didn't feed his vendetta.

He imagined breaking into Dib Membrane's home, and finding the green thing in one of those holding pens that held large dogs, and eating the meat they had thrown it. Hitting it over the head might not work on an alien as it would on a dog or a human being. He'd carry his gun of course, his licensed old colt revolver. It was clunky, but it had always been reliable and had never once misfired. He wasn't exactly a practised shooter, as he hadn't used the thing in decades, but it would just serve as a precaution against those metal sword-arms it had.

So what then? Sedatives? Would they even work? He could buy tranquilizers for horses. Enough of that stuff could put anything out cold, even an elephant.

Even Dib Membrane.

What if he _did_ haul the beast into his car, and drove off with it? When then?

Handing it over to the government wasn't enough.

He wanted to show this 'Zim' the same pain and misery it had caused him. The creature might not have the same morals; the same emotional profundity needed to emphasise with others. But it would respond to pain alright. Every animal responded to that, whether they were from outer space or not.

And maybe, just maybe, if the alien was magical, and powerful, it might be able to bring his son back from the dead. That possibility was worth chasing. Aliens had magic, didn't they? Technology? Making dreams come true?

And that _Dib._

He wasn't safe from punishment either. He had actively got in Gary's way. Sheltering the thing. Lying to his peers to make him look even more stupid.

Gary left the desk and turned the TV on, sought a specific VHS tape from the shelf, slipped it out of its case and slid it into the VHS player. Despite the fraying edges of the picture generated by an aging tape, Dib's boyishly young, dishevelled profile was clear enough, and it generated the same jealous anger in Gary. He knew he should not torture himself in this way, watching this time and time again. But his questions were too loud to ignore.

How could this child have survived it? He had been in the centre of the blast, as Dib liked to fondly boast while looking directly at the camera, a microphone perched near his face as a news reporter took his story.

People were calling it a miracle that he had not perished. Dib was calling it luck; and that all this was caused by 'Zim, THE green alien.' But the people taking this interview were more interested in his survival talents, not little men from Mars.

Gary ran a hand beneath the stubby whiskers on his chin.

Dib looked a little blackened and bloodied, a little deaf from the blast, with freshly applied gauze wrapped messily around his head, but he had walked away from the eye of the storm with hardly a scratch: the same resulting blast that had levelled buildings and killed hundreds of people.

It made no sense.

He hit the rewind button, watched the interview from the beginning.

The chase in the rain that February night had taught Gary much. The alien could bleed. It had defensives, sure, and a front row viewing had helped him to better prepare for it, but it was irrefutably mortal. And water made it sizzle.

Gary swallowed, and turned away from the boy on TV a moment, overcome with grief. He leaned against the doorframe of his study, feeling overwhelmed. Hatred was catapulting him forwards into situations he never would have believed.

Could this alien bring his son back? It had an abundance of technology. It was a being from the realms of possibility, the very unknown.

If the old records in human history were to be believed, then it was aliens who had given humanity language, the pyramids, and other architectural marvels.

Though there was the grave to visit in Oldrise Cemetery, the upstairs bedroom was its own mausoleum – filled with painful memories. Gary left the interview playing, went up the stairs, and glided into this son's bedroom. Walking in here always left him feeling like he'd been punched in the chest. Sometimes he only came up here when he was heavily inebriated.

The room reflected the simple innocence of a six year old. His favourite stuffed toy; an otter called Codger, still sat awaiting its master on the pillow. Puzzle sets sat on the shelves never to be played with. Along the boy's toy chest was a small band of plastic horses. He'd loved animals.

Gary came in here to close the curtains every night, and he opened them again every morning, drunk or not.

It hurt to do it. But he did it nonetheless.

His wife could not live in the same house, haunted by memories, and this room. Now he felt like the only guardian to his boy's crypt.

He did not blame her for leaving him. Alcohol had provided more of an escape, and he had turned away from her also.

Moving with solid steps and a lump in his throat, he left his little boy's room and went back down to his study. The VHS tape had reached the end of its recording, showing nothing but loud static.

What normal life might he have led, if it were not for that green fire? If his son had lived, and his wife had not left him?

Being all alone had only reinforced the pain, the anger, the depression.

He was not a killer. He had never partaken in cruelty.

He sat back at his desk, and covered his eyes with one hand. He could not allow things to go on as they were, could not let villains go unpunished. He would do what he had to, to make things right.

-x-

Surviving this unfamiliar dystopia exhausted him.

He pushed the door open, expecting to see that silly bathtub for dolls filled to the brim, and found it hard to hide the dismay opening on his countenance when he saw her sitting, waiting there by a basin of hot bubbly water. Stacked close by were soft fluffy towels, and placed by her knees was one of those water-proof mats that was large enough for him to lay on. She was dipping her hand into the bubbly water, testing its temperature.

Clara looked over at him, her eyes impossible to read. She smiled, trying as she was to appear reassuring, and he hoped the expression was as genuine as her intentions.

"Whenever you're ready Zim, you can take off your robe."

But he wasn't ready.

He stood rooted like a statue as he held the opening of the purple robe tightly to his chest. He felt the cool of his nakedness under there, and the uninviting chill beyond the cocooning fabric. Why couldn't she just leave him be?

"Zim?" Her question made his right antenna ring. "Are you okay?"

He shook his head, hardly believing he was suffering human help and kindness he was still so afraid to trust in. He'd believed that if he kept moving, if he kept going forwards, he'd be unstoppable. Now he could not move for fear of pain.

He clung on to whatever he could when defeat had him sink to the deepest depths. Looking back, even slightly, filled him with horror, but a glimpse that way also revealed what he had overcome.

Clara maintained her smile despite his stony silences. "It's okay, Zim. I won't bite."

Zim peered over at the bubbly water in the bowl. He'd suffered their sponge-baths over the weeks, and not once did the water sting or burn him. The sight of it however still filled him with the instinctive distrust of it: being on Earth had stamped many fears and uncertainties into his heart, and he was not familiar with what was safe and what wasn't without the sanctions of his computer.

"Here. Let me." Clara walked over, knelt down by his indisposed form and slipped off the long and soft purple robe. His eyes took on a frightened, miserable cast, as if being naked opened up new ways of being disgraceful. It didn't matter how many times he was stripped and then clothed again; whenever he was bare before them, self-loathing and shame crowded the colour in his eyes.

He tried to hide himself behind skinny arms and skinny claws.

Hands touched his shoulders. He tensed, emitting a squeaky growl.

Her gentleness was unreal. Every time she touched him, his defences rose to the rafters, expecting something malignant beneath her contact. Life was hard edges, mistrusts, hate and pain. Without Membrane's protection, he was adamant that Clara would change from her superficial gentleness into something else.

She guided him over to the water-proof mat. "Sit on the mat, honey, and relax."

He gave her that sharp, assertive look, and she knelt beside him, waiting, showing infallible patience. Her smile was fading at the edges, her eyes more confused than anything.

"Leave m-me." _Please._ "I d-don't n-need y-your h-help."

"Being stubborn isn't going to help you, Zim. And just because you've left the lab doesn't automatically mean you're out of the woods. You are still convalescing. Now, are you going to argue, or are you going to sit down?"

His eyes shifted to the mat, and back to her.

Fighting her, he could see, was going to get him nowhere.

Stiffly, he sat down, making sure to keep his bony legs over his crotch area.

"After we get you clean and snuggled up, I'll make you some soup. How does that sound?" He nervously watched as she dunked the sponge into the bubbly water. She lifted it up and he instinctively tensed, eyes screwing shut, fists clamped. "You carry so much tension in your shoulders." He felt her knead the sponge into his back under the PAK's mantle. He'd expected the water to be tepid, but the sudden heat of it was a wonderful surprise. Then she worked the sponge into and around his neck. The moan came out before he could stop it in time.

 _This is really... really nice..._

There was little use resisting the flexes of his right antenna. As a cat communicated joy through its ears or tail, he did the same thing with his antenna.

Her eyes were looking him over as she cleaned him, checking for any new bruises or marks that would indicate bedsores or signs of self-harm.

Though he was not answering, she chatted away with the same attention and care. "Is there anything you want to work on first? Or what you'll want to build?"

"Se-security." He choked.

"You don't need to tackle everything at once. You'll still get it all done, Zim. Just enjoy the day as well."

He began to lean a little more into the sponge-massages, eyes lowering from the soporific heat. The sponge-baths were usually brisk and quick affairs so that they didn't exact too much energy from him and so that he didn't get too cold.

She threw a towel over his shoulders and proceeded to massage him dry.

Zim had to secretly admit that they were providing a damn good service even if their help was still making him tense with shame, but for a moment he allowed himself the comfort.

She was careful with him as he was mostly all bone, with little to no insulation protecting his organs.

Clara had fresh nightwear ready just an arm length away. He woodenly replied, stretching out each arm as best he could, and felt the fluffy soft material cloak his littleness. He knew he would sweat through this too, and he sighed.

"There. That'll soothe those shivers away."

How did she never find this strange? Perhaps in the lab there had been a sense of displacement, of surrealism when you had a fantastical scientist hurrying about with his fanatical machines and caring for an exotic otherworldly creature, but here, in an ordinary house, she acted as though she was looking after someone she had known for a long time. He tried to see past her affections, her warmth to spy the truth. But he could never find anything other than her sincerity.

"You wanna go for some homemade soup?"

They were always propelling food his way. "Not r-really hungry."

"That's okay, just manage what you can." She picked up the basin and sluiced the used water down the big human-sized bathtub's plughole. Seeing that as his cue, he woozily climbed to his feet. The floor tilted just a little before righting itself again, but the fleck of dizzying colours took longer to leave his vision.

She noticed. She came over, knelt down and wrapped an arm around him. "Do you feel okay, honey?"

The question was so very simple, and yet it entailed too much.

Zim only leaned into her, tired and dizzy. His lower legs were shaky. He had been dependent on his _self-_ sufficient _self-_ healing PAK - and he had never needed to give pause and regard his injuries – only to ever see them as novel and irrelevant inconveniences.

Living in this mortal hell without this reliability made him that much more careful and that much more timid. Every little bit of pain was much more terrifying and much more intimate.

They told him that he'd get stronger, with time. He didn't believe them.

"Let me take you to bed, Zim. It's no trouble." Her arms went around him. He fetched a set of claws into the fabric of her cardigan to hold on when she spooned him into her arms. Her hold was secure, and there was never a moment where he felt she might drop him, but for insecurity's sake he held on anyway.

She carried him back into his softly lit bedroom. The nightlight was painting the ceiling with dappling colour. When she set him down on the bed, she immediately bundled up his legs and torso, and shored up the pillows so that he could lean against them. He had long stopped stiffening or shrinking away whenever she went near or touched his PAK.

"I'm going to heat up your supper. You snuggle down and rest."

"Cl-Clara h-human?" His choke was filled with what sounded like water.

"Yes, honey?"

"Can I h-have something to d-drink?"

"Of course. Do you have anything in mind?"

He shook his head.

"That's okay, I'll get you something."

His wrinkled fuchsia eyes were drawn to her with a heavy intensity.

"Zim. Everything will be okay. Just remember that we're here to support you, and protect you. This isn't a limited affair. This is for life." She reached out, and stroked his cheek. His fear cooled: sliding away like shadows after the lights had been turned on.

When she left, he sat, cupping the blanket to his chest. He sipped in breath, gladdened when there was no wall of pain. Lying down all night made the coughing worse and he had scrunched up, hacking and spluttering until he was coughing up blood. Now he was breathing easy – and the scary event seemed far, far away.

He waited for her to return, looking for her company. Being alone wasn't quite as welcoming as it used to be, so he tried to hide the smile when she returned with a little tray of food.

"Just manage what you can, honey." She set the food on the bed tray after positioning it over his lap. Though hardly hungry, his spooch grumbled.

He reached for the cup of honeyed milk, and he slurped it down, his thirst seemingly increasing with every gulp. Before he had scarcely begun, she was prying the cup out of his little claws. "Not so fast, Zim! You can have some more in a little while. Wait for that to go down first."

"Who d-do you t-think y-you a-are?" He rasped.

She frowned at him, as if she had hoped their relationship wouldn't backtrack like this, and that she might be spared his anger. "The voice of reason. Be my guest if you want to vomit down your nice new clothes and bed sheets."

A dangerous glitter intensified in his eyes as he looked up at her, stupefied by her sudden sharpness. She didn't back down. His right antenna bobbed up and down, and the querulous fire in his eyes dissipated. "You su-sure are bossy."

"Well, someone's got to look after you. We both know you're terrible at it." She said with more kindness. "You can bark at me all you like, but I've got a job to do, and nothing you say or do will stop me from doing it."

That made him cock his head slightly, expression softening.

"Now try some soup. It isn't all that bad."

"D-don't stand there – w-watching me." He grunted.

She couldn't help but shake her head, smiling at his stubbornness. "All right, all right. Just don't forget to use your napkin."

He gave her a long look to make sure she was leaving him in peace before he lifted up a spoon and dipped it into the soup.

-x-

 _The next day_

Silence, that plaguing emptiness as a single tiny black craft sailed across the girth of a massive gas giant. The faded purples of its asteroid belt speckled in the far reaches of places cold and vacant. This craft, its right rim shiny with light from an alien sun, was the only indication that it was there at all. No propulsion system aided it. It had spent all that was left.

An abyss hung on every side, save for the silhouette of passing planets that stood in the same void. Brightness filled the cabin, somehow, somewhere, as if the alien sun's light was trying to burn its way in.

Zim snorted out a worried sound, eyes opening as Dib pushed open the curtains. Warm amber buttered the room, and drowsily he drew himself upright, shaky and chilled despite the surplus of blankets upon his quilt. He couldn't quite place where he was, and for a lucid moment, was positive the man at the window was Membrane. The transition, from his dreams, to waking up here, was anything but easy; however, there was that shift in his heart too, from the pressure of preordained assignment to this hopeful, if wayward, freedom.

His hooded eyes alighted on his bedside clock as he shifted his legs and sat up, blinking woozily.

No, that couldn't be right! The battery must have died! There was no way it was quarter past nine. QUARTER PAST NINE! He could have surfed his way to any victory by now, or done about a hundred jobs. Forgetting his bouts of narcolepsy in Membrane's lab, he had never slept in so late.

"Y-You didn't w-wake me?" He asked groggily. Accusingly.

Dib approached, looking dog-tired. Dark saddlebags sat under his eyes, and his scythe of hair had started to split down the middle in a comical way. "Why? Which appointment are you hurrying off to?" Despite his exhaustion, his smile was warm and genuine. "Gotta feed you up, make you nice and fat. Medicine first and foremost though. No buts. Then you can run along and create chaos. That sound alright to you?"

Zim stared at him for a moment, his mind hitting a blank wall.

What to do?

What to DO?

This was to be his first real day of his own real decision making, his own licence to create. It had been preying on his mind – this moment - but this tangible hope also gave him strong kicks of anxiety. All orders would be his own, or that of his foster humans.

It was what he wanted, wasn't it? To take control in all its purity? Why else had he stamped his brethren flat during Impending Doom 1?

He could hear the irksome birds singing outside, and feel the chilliness of the day infiltrating his room. Sunlight dappled across his quilt, and he then stared down at the pools of gold. It was kind of...nice to have someone with him. So used was he to shouldering an isolated existence.

Wordlessly, aware of the Irken's sickly tremors, Dib sat on the bed beside him, hearing the springs beneath squeak, and eased him onto his lap to rub some warmth into his shivery body. It took awhile to get Zim going. Luckily these drowsy episodes of his were getting shorter.

A dark green scab had formed on his bottom lip. It was a reassuring sign that he could heal, even if the process was a much slower one. Such was the laziness of Irken biology when it had relied on external machinery to do the job for possibly as long as millennia. That was why he was still such a mess inside.

"You really are like a lizard." Dib teased.

"And you're just be-begging to be destroyed."

Instead of plopping him back on the bedcovers, he transported him from the bed and lowered him closer to the floor, forcing him to stand. It was not clear to Zim why Dib was enacting such torture. Despite the late morning hour, he was selfishly inclined to lounge around bit longer just so that his brain had more time to engage.

Dib left him stranded there as he turned towards his wardrobe. Zim watched, rubbing the sleep out of one closed eye. He was pretty sure they'd be fussing over him for awhile yet. He knew he had scared the crap out of them. And the meddlesome coughing and early-morning shakes made them doubt his promising abilities back to a firm reset, which enraged him. Every time he made a grab for independence, his weak half perfidiously spoiled it, with no PAK to foil such mutiny. It was hard to be patient. Hard not to begin another episodic deluge of anger.

He tentatively rolled back his left shoulder, feeling that proverbial twinge reply in kind.

"Dib. I am capable. Go and assist your Clara or something." He croaked, staring at Dib's back. The human pulled out some clothes. Because, clearly, he couldn't CHOOSE for himself. This 'babying' was getting ridiculous.

"So," the human began, "what's on the agenda first? You could...give the piano a go."

"That is for playtime, Dib human. I have perimeters to establish. A computer to fiddle with. And _you_ need sleep."

Dib blanched, looking caught between a laugh and a smile. "Gotta make sure you don't go crazy first."

"That makes two of us."

The human stood tall suddenly, one hand strangely rising to remove his glasses so that he could rub at his eyes. He left at a slight wobble of legs. Zim watched him go, worried. Did he just get emotional on him?

He turned his attention to the assemblage of 'stinky human-made' attire waiting on the bed. He scowled, thinking that the garments would further demote his prestige, but, upon inspection, he was suitably impressed by the fabric's softness and quality. It would keep him warm, and if he sweated, it would dry quickly.

Hastily, as if desperate to get on with the day, Zim slipped on his turquoise shirt over his head and arms, the PAK slipping perfectly out of a seamed hole made especially for it. The blue handknitted jumper he left hanging open at the front, and before he'd barely pulled up dark blue his pants and slipped on his loafers, he was halfway across the room, anxious to get started, the wrist brace falling prey to his awkward fiddling as he tried to wrap on the stubborn Velcro.

Finally, freedom! So close!

He thrust open his door like a Commandant about to rally his troops, and more or less did an awkward march across the landing, antenna quirkily twitching in extremes of excitement and nervousness.

The thing about being small, and light on your toes was that you hardly made any sound at all, and, like a shadow, he could get beneath their radar pretty easily.

Though his hip bothered him slightly as he tried to goose-step, he went into the lounge to give it a proper martial overview, his hands perched beneath his PAK.

These human-places always towered above him, their furniture giant-sized. When he saw the lounge windowsill lined with ornaments, he wondered why they owned such useless things. He thought that maybe the ornaments were talismans to something powerful or ritualistic, and mustn't be touched, in fear he'd break the spell they contained. In fact, his humans possessed quite a few curious oddities. He too had chosen ornaments at random to make his lounge appear more normal to the indifferent eye. And they had these little sticks in the bathroom, in a pot, covered in cotton buds at either end. What did they do with those? Stick them up their nose or something?

With stiff steps he stooped towards the alcove of the fireplace. It was another unguarded entry point to the house, and needed to be amended with security installations.

He stood at parade-rest. "Computer!" He called, his voice breaking into a husky squeak seconds before he speedily realized his blunder. His shoulders and antenna wilted in sync. Oh yes, quite right. It was back to the old days of doing everything manually before he had a base of his own. An internal call to his PAK also provided the same fruitless findings. No longer would it extend to him a stylus and electronic pad to write on.

Old habits died fucking hard.

Which made him wonder. He ran a finger under his chin. His cerebral prowess could still kinetically manipulate things on a small scale. "I _could_ implement my PAK again. Stick things on it. Weaponize it, from the outside. But what could power it? What ingenuity must I calibrate...?"

He sort of sagged on the spot, staring senselessly at the wood logs lying upon the cold hearth a moment as his mind suppurated.

"Zim?"

He turned around slowly, claws interlocking across his chest, antenna springing to its full length. Dib was standing with his head cocked slightly, looking concerned. "I thought I _told_ you to rest? Look at how sick you look!"

"I'm going to nap when you nap, Zim. I think you'll hold out for another hour, and then I'll find you slumped somewhere."

"Well, in _that_ case..." He paused a moment to cough out some discomfort. "I'd like..." He stomped on any emerging uncertainty, and said as clearly as his croaky voice could manage: "I demand a device I can inscribe notes on! Understand? And bring me black...eh..paint or oil or something!"

"Uh yeah, sure. I can get you something to scribble on, but the paint thing?"

"You still here? Hurry up and fetch me my things Gir!" He stopped dead. They had both heard it. The blazing torture in Zim's eyes was palpable. He looked around himself, his fragile emotions gathering into a storm.

Dib speedily continued the conversation, pretending he hadn't heard the blunder. "Just give me a sec. The paint thing's gonna have to wait. Clara will eat you up if you get it on any of the furniture." He backtracked a few steps, and then disappeared through the doorway.

"Stupid, stupid!" He raged to himself. Why had he blurted it out? Now Dib was going to think he was nuts!

 _Right, what else do I need?_

He tried to count how many jobs he had to do on his claws, but he didn't have enough claws.

Dib returned a good thirty seconds later, and knelt down, giving him a notepad and pencil. Zim looked at it, then up at the human as if this was Dib's poorest idea of a joke. "Why are you bringing me these...things? I want an inscription device! A tablet! Some electronic pad! Not THESE barbaric tools!"

"Zim, it does the same thing. I will get you something real nice, I promise. But in the meantime this will work just as well."

The Irken glared at the notepad and pen, looking about ready to throw them back in retaliation. Then the change that took over was so sudden that Dib was a little lost, "Hey, hey!" He whisked the Irken into his arms, only to feel him sob with quiet tears he was trying so hard to suppress. "It's okay. I will get you anything you want. But you've got to learn that clicking your fingers doesn't get you things instantly anymore. Life's going to be a little slower for you, and that's not a bad thing."

He waited for either Zim to do a rebound, and push away from him or stand and shiver and shake as he ruminated over his losses, or gains, depending on how you looked at it. Every time he pirouetted to the next thing, he was glumly reinforced with the familiarity of not having his repository of things to use or take from.

Zim broke from the contact, realized his whole body had tensed.

"Tell you what," Dib began airily, "how about we get that huge computer my father gave you all set up? That'll keep you busy."

The Irken gave him a sharp, cold look a moment, as if to say; 'what will a HUMAN computer do for me?' But he settled deeper into his silence instead, his right hand insecurely kneading his arm.

x

Dib watched him sidle up onto his little desk chair and then pushed himself towards the counter. The human reached forwards and hit the big purple button on the computer tower, and the neighbouring screen lit up. "See, it's all working. You can put in your own password so that no one else can use it. This computer can print off schematics if you want it too. It's got the internet. It's got a fast processor, and gigahertz of RAM and I mean like, a 100 gigahertz or something. It's got quad power, and a quad cooling system. Enough for your insatiable desires, I think."

Zim rubbed one eye with the back of his hand; the left that had the wrist brace.

"You can even get it to answer simple commands, like yours did at your base."

"Is it...touch screen?" He asked.

"Of course! My dad wanted you to have the best to help you feel better. Just... don't go ordering missiles, or buying anything off the dark web, okay?" He ended with a subdued smile.

Zim gave the opening screen on the computer a considering look. The interest was enough to put a dubious pause on those tears.

Dib, a hand upon his alien's shoulders, showed him the benefits of using a mouse, and a keyboard, explaining that the touch screen might not work on everything. Zim looked like he was listening, and taking it in, but he also looked a little flaky, a little off kilter, like a kid who had wandered too far out into the deep-end of the pool and had got a little disoriented as to where the shore was.

When Dib had said everything he could think of without overcomplicating it, Zim tried it out by using the human keyboard and mouse. Despite his fraying memory and age, he was a very fast learner. He was finding and re-finding software programs that he might have later need of, and was already reading the hardware schematics of the computer he was using. He had no problem at all when it came to understanding human words, and before Dib knew it, he was on the internet, looking up; 'How to build USA military grade turrets.' Then he was bookmarking a bid on Ebay for pink garden flamingos, black grade tubing for industrial works from the Amazon marketplace, and finally he was Googling 'washing machines.'

This would keep him busy for hours.

"And t-the black paint?" Zim asked.

"And what do you need paint for?"

"That's my business." He said as he clicked away on the mouse.

Dib comically rolled his eyes.

The former Elite paused at the keyboard and turned to look up at him, eyes much more vibrant again, their voluminous fuchsia glittering brightly in the morning light: a vibrancy Dib thought he'd never see again.

"How does your left hand feel?"

"Tingly. My whole side feels tingly. Membrane said something about the blood not getting to that part of the brain, causing damage, but my PAK is supposed to disallow such things from happening."

"Zim. When blood and oxygen don't get to an organ in time, it starts to die. And your PAK can't 'fix' things up for you anymore. My dad told you this. I told you this. That cut on your lip? It hasn't healed, has it?"

He watched the Irken draw a claw up to it.

"The reason those wounds on your chest healed so well is because we took care of it. You know this too. Zim. Sometimes blocking things out will only come back and hurt you. You've got to be more careful."

"I'm plenty careful." He put his hands on his hips, acting all dismissive. "Now run along dirt beast. I have work to do."

Dib checked the time on his watch, timing when the hour had elapsed. Leaving the moronic Irken to his own moronic devices wasn't easy.

Among other duties in that hour, and escaping into the gorgeous April sunshine for a quick cigarette, he returned to find Zim slouched on his desk, head resting heavily on his arms. A slight wheezy snore told him he was asleep.

His prediction was almost exact.

Feeling like a spying parent checking up on the behaviour of their new little tenant, he looked briefly for signs of any distress, even slightly. He honestly did not know what he expected to find. Irkens behaved very differently under stress and change. In fact, to contrast his worries, everything was Spartan clean. The little guy had made the bed himself, and folded his pjs with insane neatness. The only place that was messy was his desk. Strewn upon the counter beside his arm was Gir's chassis, his metal head partially removed to reveal delicate tubing within. Beneath these remains, he turned a jaundiced eye on a huge double spread blueprint Zim must have printed off from his computer. Dib tried to make it out, but couldn't, as Zim was leaning across it.

He was working on something.

And he had crafted these details with incredible speed.

Dib racked his brain. His father had spent a lot of time with the convalescing Irken. He might even have forwarded him some designs, an email, say. And Zim had maybe altered it a little digitally before printing it out, all before he had come up to check on him.

Tacked on the top level of desk were written lists from the notepad he had given him. His signature writing was a little wobbly, but the Irken symbols were still elegantly drawn out. Mostly, from what Dib could understand from them, they included details for complex wiring, and camera components.

Dib peered at Gir's broken down parts. How different the goofy robot looked, with his eyes all dark and eerie, with two limbs missing, and wires holding it all together.

Zim was out. Like, really out. Even gently nudging his shoulder did nothing. And he could tell, because his greying antenna didn't twitch.

Snooping getting to dangerous levels, Dib rested his hand on the mouse, and awoke the screen from its screensaver of bobbing fish. The Irken hadn't had time to throw up a password yet, and everything was readily accessible.

Yes. There were emails from his father. Two.

Perfect. Just perfect. Their little clubhouse was continuing.

Digital notes, all in written English because there was nothing to configure it into Irken.

Diagrams everywhere. This guy worked fast. Mentally anyway.

He opened one email, and it was a terse post with a singular attachment. He opened it, and was staring at the composition of a robot's blueprint. Gir.

Before his mind could cogitate this, Zim moaned in his sleep. It was the perfect excuse to stop prying. He closed the email, and rubbed the creature's little shoulders. "You'll get stiff sleeping there."

Zim jerked upright, blinking frenziedly.

"It's just me." He said, discerning the immediate way his body drooped once he realized.

"I...I was... w-working... So much to do..."

"Do you always try to do everything at once, Zim?" He paused, chuckled, "Yeah, what a silly question."

He pushed him back from the desk, knelt down and took the little creature into his arms. Zim's compliant limpness spoke for itself as he leaned his head on the man's shoulder, his eyelids droopily shutting again. His trust in Dib was paramount. In this, the investigator suddenly felt many stabs of guilt for having just pried into his computer files. Maybe he struggled to let go of his old ways too?

He kinda wished he hadn't looked. Now he was worried again. About Gir. There was no way he could be remade from what was left. Why worry, right?

He carried him down the stairs and into the lounge to cosy up, neutral ground and all that. Grabbing a fleecy blanket and wrapping it around the bastard's shoulders, he kept him on his lap as he rested on the couch, his feet up on the stool.

Without even opening his eyes, Zim murmured with a soft smile, "Remember when you had a glowing hole coming out of your big head?"

He could not help but smirk, even though that particular event hadn't been a pleasant experience. "Yeah."

"And that time you mooed like a cow-thing 'til they fixed you?"

"Yes. No thanks to you. I have half a mind to tell Clara _some_ of the things you did to us kids at Skool. I still can't forgive you for turning me into a sausage. And hypnotising me with a pimple. And hijacking my persona with a robot version of me. And that time you harried me with your robot mole like, all night."

"You fell into my trap every time."

"Not _every_ time." He admonished, still smiling.

Long moments passed, and he was sure Zim had fallen back to sleep. But then he added dryly: "At least I don't have to go far to destroy you now."

"Just keep pigs and hamsters and baloney out your 'heinous plans' this time."

"Dib stink?" He put a hand to his mouth to fight back a yawn.

"Yeah?"

"You gonna go back to chasing... whatmacallsits? Wear-wolves?"

"Sure am, little guy. And ghosties. I could take you with me, one day, Zim."

* * *

 **Dib07:** Sorry Gary, you had to wait like, some 60 chapters. Heh. Who's the villain now, Zim? Yeah. You pure evil, little cute thing.


	4. Another Part of Me

**Saving Zim: Epilogue by Dib07**

 _ **Summary:**_

 _When you had it all. When old age forces you to change._

 _When life isn't what you'd imagined._

 _When you aren't prepared to be so powerless._

 _When a soldier's undetermined future remains his greatest fear._

 _ **Disclaimer:**_

 _I do not own the IZ characters. However this story and this idea is mine._

 _Cover art beautifully made by_ _Truekrisstianity!_ _All credit goes to her_ _, please do not use without his permission, thank you :)_

 _ **Warnings:**_

 _Character death. Character angst. Blood. Swearing. Gary._

* * *

 **Dib07:**

Hi, it's me again! One more update I think before I give this a break. Thanks to your continued support! If it wasn't for the soul-lifting feedback I would not have spent half as much time writing, and editing this BIG story. It's been a pleasure, and an honour sharing this! Wanna dedicate this chapter to **Piratemonkies64** also known as **Slothfantasy** on tumblr, not only for her love and dedication that inspires me, but because of all her hard work she shows in the ' _Saving Zim'_ audio chapters!

Thank you so much to **HaleyRiler** for her sweet fanart on Tumblr that I so adore! Your inspirational artwork is amazing! I dedicate this chapter to you as well! (heh, so many dedications!)

side note to all: due to the chapter length, I was tempted to remove the 'star gazing' part, but found it too cute to part with. Read it as you wish, or read on past it for the main story! :)

 **Guest:**

He's had it rough. I think they've all had their fair share one way or another.

* * *

 **CHAPTER 4: Another Part of Me**

 _-x-_

 ** _-One week later-_**

 _-x-_

Before retiring for the night, he fastidiously checked on Zim to make sure he was in bed, sleeping. It did loads of good for his own psyche. But when he knocked on the door and opened it wider to poke his head in, he was taken aback to see that the bed, and the room, was empty. The window was open, allowing a cool chill to breeze in. The blankets of the bed, including the quilt, had been pushed aside. He had left his bedside light on.

"Damn you Zim."

It had gone ten thirty. He had crept out without a sound.

Anger and worry surmounted, fighting for a superior place in his mind as he stomped back downstairs after discovering that he wasn't in any of the upstairs rooms either; the blue door remaining locked.

The downstairs rooms were as he left them, vacant and dark. No glittery eyes stared back at him out of the gloom.

"Zim?" His urgency made his tone harsher. How could such a loud, destructive Irken be so stealthy and surreptitious when he needed to be? The very creature _glowed_ like a nightlight.

He hurried into the dark kitchen. Everything in here was veiled in the black of night that gave up its own lonely serenity. His eyes fell on the backdoor, and saw that one of the dining chairs had been moved to stand close to it. When his hand fell on the handle, it opened. He had locked it, he was quite sure.

He stepped out onto the back porch where the ochre light of the moon limed his profile in silvery amber. It was so bright it cast long, shifty shadows that made the garden seem full of crafty approach. The summer wind, though warm, did not help dim this menacing effect.

Other than the sly rustle of leaves, the only thing he could hear was the sharp cry of a night owl.

Funny, how quickly and truly the dark still intimidated him. This was his back garden, another alcove of safety in a busy and crazy world, yet the deepening black beyond promised no comfort.

Above him and beyond him was the immensity of the stars, pirouetting so beautifully across the zenith of the night like lost crystals in a vapour trail that had tumbled out the back of someone's wagon. How ominous, scary, and wondrous space was: the ultimate unknown. Zim was far braver than he could have imagined, travelling in the void so ordinarily, while he spooked from the night in his own garden.

He looked down, and saw that soft, dim blue cresting tiny circles of pink. Dib headed out into the deeper dark, slippers treading through dark grass. He could smell the loam of the soil, the sap of the pines bordering the fences. Summer nights were always a thing of nostalgia.

Not to jump him, he called as he approached. Zim was sitting on an open breadth of grass, hands splayed on either side of him. He had been staring up at the cosmos. His right antenna tweaked upwards first before he reacted. He glanced around spitefully a moment, an intransigent act of self-defence he had never been able to overcome. When he saw who it was, he relaxed but his eyes were still edged with diehard suspicion.

"Come to herd me to bed, human?"

 _Well, yeah._ He thought, but knew better. "Just wanted to know where you were, that's all. What are you doing out here?"

Zim just stared up at him, as if Dib's question was too dumb to be answered.

"I thought you said the stars didn't interest you?"

Zim looked downwards for a moment, eyes searching. His masks were shifting. The pugnacious sum of his militarism was never far away, and for just a moment, the Irken seemed close to revealing why he was sitting here, under the quiet span of the cosmos. Then his pride clapped over whatever else may have been there, and he flicked a thumb in the direction of the house.

"They don't. Who said they do? Now go and stand and gap somewhere else! My brilliance needs time away from you dear cretins of m-mine!"

Dib stuffed his hands in his blue pockets of his robe, and raised a bemused eyebrow at him. Zim had already turned to look back up at the stars, his true intent losing its disguise. The light of the moon shone down, casting a surreal light on the green of Zim's upturned face, and giving him this almost omniscient look that contributed to the enigma of his nature, and his ostracism. The Delphic skies were mirrored back in the undisclosed depths of his eyes, both the sparkling stars and the subterranean mysteries beneath. He looked so singular, and fragile, sitting there, as if begging the infinite abyss for answers that might reassure his half life.

Deciding to stay, he quietly sat down in the grass beside his old friend, and looked up too. There was silence between them for some time, but it was a serene sort of quiet that comforted them both.

A shooting star wicked across the ink of the sky, gone in a blink. Dib shut his eyes, and made a wish. He didn't care how childish it was, so he was doubly shocked to open his eyes to find Zim doing the same thing. He didn't dare say anything in case it stung the alien's pride.

The owl called again, its lonely call resounding across the garden.

"Never had the time to look at the stars the same way you do." Zim quietly admitted in the silence, as if he had been reflecting on Dib's earlier question. "It's different, up there."

The stars glinted like city lights on his glasses. "See? It's not so bad here."

"Living on Earth has definitely been...informative." He agreed. He had been trained to destroy beauty as much as ignore its falseness. There was no denying it now. He even enjoyed the way the moon's eerie light made the flowers shine in a secret splendour he would not otherwise have seen.

"See that star?" Dib pointed at the centre of Orion's Belt.

"Red Magnus P-34." Zim said, reciting from memory.

"Well, we 'humans' call it the Betelgeuse star. It belongs to Orion's Belt. See the pattern, space boy? It makes the shape of a man drawing a bow."

Zim chuckled. "You mean you draw pictures from stars?"

"Yeah. See that one over there? That's in the shape of a bear. Ursa Major, the great bear. Part of it forms the Big Dipper."

"The madness." He chuckled again. "I should expect no less."

"Try it. See a constellation, and make it into something. Anything."

"What a perfect waste of my time." He looked anyway. "Okaaay. I see a... a squid." He said, pointing at this jumble of stars, and feeling stupid for indulging in this childish fantasy game for infants. He did not see the fun in it.

Dib snorted a laugh. "That's Pegasus! But I like it! You're trying!"

"What's a Peggie-sus?"

This prompted another snort. "A flying horse. From Greek myth."

"You mean those long legged-creatures you call horsies can fly?"

"I think your translator is broken Zim. And no, they can't fly. Only in stories."

"I don't get it."

"Don't worry, alien. You don't have to. It's like the stories Clara reads to you. It's fun to imagine things, and to break away from reality now and then."

Zim huffed, but not from irritation. He fell quiet, busily thinking as he looked up.

Dib was careful not to disturb his thoughts. He was aware of how plainly and deeply Zim had been cleansed of his frustrations. Since being freed from his Empire, he had stopped tearing through life at break-neck speed, and his deep-rooted aggravations had settled too. The unrelenting stress of duty had gone, giving more time for the old guy to breathe. But there was also a facet of loneliness, made more remarkable with this serenity. Peering into the scopes of space reminded him of places he could no longer reach. As such, his Irken ostracism was complete.

Dib was also very aware that he was not used to letting things happen around him without making things happen by his own hand. He lived _to_ control. Not the other way round.

-x-

"Zim? What _are_ you doing to the washing machine?" He had walked into the kitchen to go out through the backdoor for a morning cigarette when he saw the mess on the linoleum floor, and the sight of his Irken kneeling in the viscera of the appliance. He had unscrewed the front plate, and the back, and was now dismantling its tubes and parts from the wall.

This bodge-job of Irken influence was beginning to infiltrate the house little by little. Zim had installed eight little security cameras over the front door, nine more covering the back, and a further ten still under development on his desk. He had already got to the cleaning products, and had blasted the house in all kinds of antibacterial sprays, and about slaughtered any room with a RAID can whenever he spied an uninvited flying insect. He was becoming slowly more active by busying himself with these projects, but like any creature hampered by age, he got tired quickly, and was often found dozing on the sofa with a cleaning spray still in one hand.

"I'm improving its efficiency, stupid! What does it look like?" Zim spared his human the briefest moment as he looked his way.

"Well, from here it looks like you're destroying it."

"It just needs an amplifying T-emetic. Then it'll wash your filthy clothing in seconds, not hours!"

"Your filthy stuff gets washed in there too, Fudge." Dib sipped at his coffee, finding this so bizarrely amusing that he hadn't the heart to stop him, even though he had the power to step in at any time and save what was left of the washing machine.

A screw bounced from Zim's aggressive manipulating as he busily tried fitting this 'T-emetic' thingamajig. "Here. Be useful and hold this." He handed over a part of the machine's hose connector. Dib took it, sipping his coffee with the other hand.

Panting, the Irken sat back, his claws covered in grime and oil. It left smears on his pastel purple hoodie top and grey pants. "Finally! It's done! It'll even wash away the fabric, it'll be so powerful!" He cranked himself up on stiff legs, and hit the ON button, a screwdriver gripped in his right hand as he gave his human a tempestuous smirk.

"Zim... I don't think..."

There was an incredible BANG inside the washing machine, followed by a waft of greasy smoke. As Clara pounded down the stairs to see what had caused the commotion, the washing machine completely spilt apart, almost cartoon-style, with Zim standing where the front of the appliance used to be. As Clara came screeching to a standstill, he looked accusingly up at her, waving the screwdriver around. "This isn't my fault! Your crappy machine couldn't handle the power of my materials!"

Clara looked on in horror at Dib, as if he was an accomplice to the washing machine's impromptu murder.

"What is going on? I can't have the kitchen destroyed!" She was staring wildly at them in disbelief and dismay. The machine's dismantled parts were still smoking, and on cue, a high pitched alarm sounded in the hallway. Dib rushed to turn off the smoke detector.

Clara stomped over to the sink and opened the kitchen windows to coax some of the smoke out.

"Why is everyone panicking?" Zim asked, watching the two humans fumble about.

Clara came out of a screen of developing smoke, grabbed his wrist and jerked him away from the piles of washing machine.

"Hey!" He snapped angrily at her as he was forced out the kitchen, his little legs trying to keep up with her, "Let me go! Don't push and pull _me_ around!"

The detector was turned off but the smoke kept building up. Then there was a dull thudding sound as Dib raced down the basement stairs Zim didn't know they had to turn off the main power supply to the house.

Clara led Zim into the lounge, her face an avid blend of anger, worry and disapproval.

"Give that to me." She said firmly, holding out her hand for the screwdriver.

Zim thought about it for a second. Then decided she had no authority to take things from him. "No." He said.

"And look at you! You are filthy!"

"So? Work is filthy." He coughed into his hand. Seconds later his right antenna could pick out the short, angry bursts of a fire extinguisher from the kitchen. He was pretty sure the slight implosion hadn't been _that_ bad. He imagined Dib was putting on a show to make this _slight_ incident seem worse than it was.

"What you just did was dangerous! What have you got to say for yourself? Are you proud, Zim? Proud of trying to blow up the house? Or getting someone hurt? What do you think might have happened if we were forced to call the fire department?"

"It's just a washing machine!"

"That's beside the point! You can't go round...destroying things!"

"I wasn't destroying! I was improving!" He croaked in retaliation.

"That didn't go so well, did it?"

More distinct blasts from the fire extinguisher. Dib was definitely hamming it up. Smoke, thinner, and with whiter curls, barrelled its way down the hallway.

Embittered anger stormed through Zim's fragile walls. He wanted to kick and lash out. All he could do instead was sulk. As much as it hurt him that Clara was telling him off, it was his love for her that hurt him the most.

"Zim? The screwdriver! Now please!" She continued to hold out her hand.

He gave it, snorting out a nasty sneer. "There! You happy? You go and fix things from now on! Let's _see_ how long it takes before this hovel you call a home falls around your stinkin' ears!" He walked away from her and began to tackle the stairs, leaving dirty footprints.

"Zim!" She called, about to pursue him when there was a CLANG in the kitchen, followed by a string of curses. She went towards the sounds, holding the screwdriver. She waved her hand through the smoke, smoke that was clearing. Dib was in the rubble, spying for any more timid flames about to sprout like budding flowers through the hot debris. The chaos seemed to be over. The open windows were steadily clearing the air, and whatever was left was just a smoky mess.

"It's that T-emetic thing Zim installed. Sent a power current too great through the mains in the wall." Dib said, then, like Zim had done, he stopped and coughed; soon forced to press his arm against his mouth and nose.

"Where did he get this T-emetic thing?"

"He made it. Out of anything he could find. He's good like that. If he wanted, he could make a plasma rifle out of a toaster."

"And you didn't think of stopping him?" Clara demanded.

"I know, I know. It was stupid. Didn't think he'd cause this much trouble so soon." As Clara stared, wanting more of an apology, he added flippantly, "It's okay! I'll buy a new washing machine. Money isn't the issue here. Kinda wanted that Xeon model in the Argos catalogue anyway."

"You don't get it, Dib." She walked away, found a chair by the dining table and sat down, hand covering her eyes. "It's not the washing machine I care about. Or the house. It's the two of you."

Dib walked through the debris, his boots cracking on bits of metal plating. He joined her at the table, and put his hands around hers. "Told you he's not house trained."

She sighed, too full of tension and the sudden fright of the explosion to give the sentiment much credit. He let go of her hands to give her a sad, delicate smile. "I'm sorry." He said. "Zim's not used to the practicalities of living with others. Or personal safety. But he knows now. He won't do that again."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because you laid down the law. He does things to impress you, Clara. Why else would he bother with a washing machine? He wants to make your life easier. That's all. He figures out what bothers you, and he tries to well...mend it. And maybe he's now more hypersensitive to mechanical problems since he can't exactly fix himself."

She bridged her fingers against her forehead, and took a deeper breath.

"I'll... I'll talk to him." Dib offered.

"No. I'll go."

She recognised resentment when she saw it, and she wanted to vanquish it straight away before it could grow. Funny, how closely an alien adopted and displayed emotions as well as any human being.

Clara took to the stairs, feeling the interval of each step as she climbed. It was quiet on the landing. His door was shut, and she expected to hear him ranting behind it; expecting at least to hear his confused, conflicted grumbles, maybe even the sounds of something being knocked moodily to the floor. But the silence was somehow more disconcerting than the noise of rebellion.

Being polite, she knocked on the door with a few taps. "Zim? It's me. I'm coming in."

She had never been afraid of him. She hadn't known who he was before he had got old. But there was a tension in her body when she thought of what he _might_ do, what he _could_ do to her when he got angry. That circuit board in his head that governed logic and reason might have short-circuited for instance, or he might have not had one at all. She had seen the weapons that had come out of his PAK when the professor had 'disarmed' him. He had been equipped for battle at all times, representing a life of violence.

She cracked open the door, and then swung it wide.

There was no sign of him.

Everything was pristine and in its usual place. The desk had not been tampered with. The wallpaper was not slashed to buggery. In fact, there was no clue he had ever come up here to vent or otherwise.

"Zim?" She called, looking around. The bed had been made with a supreme, obsessive neatness; illustrating his military tendencies. The Gir doll sat lopsided on the coverlet. The window had been opened a tad, but the gap was not large enough for him to have squeezed through. There was a tiny pot of black paint on his desk. Its lid had been coasted aside for an even smaller paintbrush.

She stood for a moment, thinking he was hiding behind a curtain, or had found a cranny by the wardrobe as a means to take cover. She supposed that, in battle, he had learnt to use any cover possible.

"Zim? Where are you?" She drew out a harsh sigh, her eyes coming to rest on the bed, wondering if it were at all likely.

She crouched low, fetching the draping coverlets over her arm, and lifted them. There, in the darkness beneath the bed, crouched Zim. His eyes, glowing that rounded, sparkling fuchsia, were staring out at her. Just behind the pair of eyes was the ardent pink and blue glow of the PAK. By his curled feet were a few storage boxes, and the boxed defibrillator unit.

"Zim." It staggered her that he felt the need to hide, like a frightened child who had punished by his parents. "What are you doing under there? Are you hiding from me?"

"No." Came a moody grunt in the dark.

"I'm sorry for shouting at you." Those curious sparkling eyes of crimson mauve blinked; echoing the dark splendours of the galaxies, but he did not budge from his place of safety. When an alien who liked secret confines had nowhere else to go, this was the place he had been forced to choose. "You know I was angry. That was a dangerous thing you did. But I know why you did it, and I forgive you. Now come out."

"No." He repeated quite adamantly.

"You can't stay there all day, Zim."

"I can. And I will." That seemed to be the long and the short of it.

"It's dusty down there."

No sound from him this time. She could only hear the sounds of his wheezy breathing.

She thought of reaching in, and pulling him out. It was only a single bed, and he was within arm's reach if she went round the other side, but he would surely move away from her grasp, making an awkward situation more awkward, and in the end it would only cause him more stress.

Dib had been left with the mess downstairs. A new washing machine was now an immediate necessity, which meant buying and installing a new one, and such a job would involve at least one or two company people to help the installation go smoothly. That would not have been a big deal in the past, but now that they had an alien in their house, any attention from the outside world was not so readily welcomed.

She stood up, and reached for a book, any book. Moving from a crouched position to full-on standing made her a little dizzy, and it felt like someone had stuffed wool down her ears. It passed over her, just as the corners of her vision speckled with strange colours. Then she sat by the bed on the floor, opened up a book on _Balthazar: the ice dragon,_ and began to read to him, keeping her voice low enough so that Zim had trouble hearing her if he remained where he was.

"So it came to pass, that Balthazar had to leave his father: King of the ice and the seas, to find new lands, and maybe, other dragons. He was filled with fear, because, if he left, his father would renounce him, and he would never be able to return to the kingdom that he would one day inherit."

Without persuasion or force, Zim naturally edged towards the light, wanting to better hear the story. His head and antennae poked out from under the drapes of the coverlets. Black soot was smudged down his face and clothing as if he'd been up a chimney. She didn't dare stop reading; so easily could he dive back under the bed again.

"But the prince of ice had to leave. Life here was harsh at best, and tedious. What he learnt about the rest of the world from the other ice dragons was bleak at best, and the stories told of a place devoid of other dragons and that they; born of ice and water, were the last. The King seemed afraid of what lay beyond the ice floes, and had no inclination to explore beyond the realm of water. And Balthazar was young: restless, and captivated by the very idea of the stories passed around, and the mention of green lands and tall forests and long, tireless deserts. He wanted to see these things, if they existed. For, like all dragons, he craved knowledge. He also believed that his kind surely couldn't be the last."

Zim edged out a little bit further, still warily viewing her as if she had all the powers of a scorned Empress. Finally he sat by her side, right antenna pricking up and down as he listened to every word.

"Balthazar thought of persuading his father first, with the suggestion of exploring the world, but he knew that such an expedition was unlikely to be approved. He was the King's only son, and his only heir. They were half starved all the time by the recent harsh winters and lack of fish and seals that they preyed upon. And so, the young prince looked to the North, knowing he'd have to begin his quest alone."

She got to the end of the chapter, and closed the book.

Zim looked away from her sulkily, folding his thin arms. Despite his great age and long military career, he acted like such a child. He was not used to having a structured family life; not used to having his Irken imagination and energy restricted by healthy limits. Perhaps he had been searching for a mother all his life, and in his zeal to impress her, had only stumbled and failed.

Gently she wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close. He went to resist, stiffening up and growling. But in the next moment he was softening, with claws nervously digging into the crook of his elbow. Clara clenched him tenderly, one hand plucking the claws away from his arm. "Let's get you all cleaned up, Zim."

He softly growled again, probably at the mention of 'being cleaned.'

She looked over at his PAK, at the signature blue tube, and the glowing ports that weren't quite as bright pink as she remembered them being when they had first met. Her eyes then trailed up to his antennae. The right one wasn't tipped grey. It was now a matted black. She thought about it for a minute, and then laughed. This instantly made him tense up again, face contorting into a hurt snarl. "You painted your antenna black? Oh sweetie, why didn't you say anything? I can buy dye for you. It's much better. That paint will only crack as it dries, and come off again."

Because he was doing his usual sulking thing, she reached over and took his sooty hand. It always surprised her how cold his extremities were.

As if had just been kicked from behind, he looked up at her suddenly in extremes of confusion as if she had just asked him a very self-incriminating question. That snarl weakened on cue and his right antenna lifted as high as it could reach. He leaned towards her, and gently poked her arm as if he doubted the physicality of her existence even though she was already holding his little hand.

"You're...different. It's getting worse by the day." He croaked. His expression, usually noncommittal due to his nature when he wasn't angry, had the hard edges of real worry. His right antenna then slanted to an eighty degree angle. She had come to learn that when he tilted his antenna like that, it meant he was either curious or concerned.

She cocked her head at the soldier; expecting him to verbally harass her a little more after the washing machine incident, and maybe hike up a coy remark based on her conduct.

"Different? In what way?"

"I... I don't fucking know. You're a human thing, how can I ever understand your bizarre customs and behaviours?"

"You're not distracting me from bathing you, are you?"

"I don't need to be bathed by you anymore!"

"Not until you can show me that you can do things without getting dizzy."

"You get dizzy too." He angrily defended, quickly averting his eyes from her.

She frowned at him. How could he have noticed? She hadn't said anything, or told Dib.

Still holding onto his hand, she helped him stand back up. "I can't have you trailing soot around the house. We'll sort you out, and then we'll have lunch."

Because he would not follow her this time and willingly permit himself to her whims that might involve 'baths,' she picked him up and carried him to the bathroom.

She called downstairs to the poor bastard who was still picking up pieces of washing machine and putting them into a plastic bin liner, "Dib! I'm giving Zim a bath. Can you bring me up some pre-boiled water? Make sure it's hot!"

"Just a minute!" Came the strained reply.

She stood him on the fluffy bathmat and then set down the little tub on the floor. He was still watching her carefully as if she was in the habit of transforming sporadically. But he did stop long enough from his grunting to realize how filthy he had got. He pulled on his hoodie top, and blinked when he saw how much soot and grime had got onto the bright fabric.

Dib came with the sterile, warm water that was in a large hand-held container. He did the honours of pouring it into the little bathtub while Clara added in some baby-safe shampoo. Zim watched, fetching agitated looks between them.

"Dib stink! Your Clara!" He was doing that thing with his claws; tapping them together and standing stiffly, legs touching, as if he was standing on a teardrop of land in the middle of the ocean. "Do you not notice the _horrible_ difference with your Clara?"

Dib had no idea what he meant by that. He finished pouring the water. "What do you mean, Fudgekin? What difference? That she's wearing something else today?"

"I did put on different perfume." She suggested. "Maybe it's that?"

Zim was shaking his head. "It's not that smelly-smell you put on!"

Dib put a hand on his tiny shoulder, and felt the shakes in his bones, and saw the worry twice reflected in his eyes. "Zim, why are you so worried? What's gotten into you?" Was this his way of getting back at his foster mother? Zim was a master manipulator in the psychological sense, and would have no doubt earned himself a master's degree in that field of study if he had gone to a human university. But if that were so, his composure would have been very different.

"There's something wrong! With her!" He pointed at Clara, angry that he was not being taken seriously.

"Zim, this had better not be a joke, or one of your confusing and spiteful attempts at revenge, understand?" Dib told him in a low, sober voice.

The pain of his response made Zim's eyes look brighter and more vivid. His claws were back to clutching savagely at his right arm, antenna slinging low.

Dib turned to his fiancée who was kneeling beside the small, bubbly bathtub looking puzzled. He could see nothing amiss at all other than the soot on her frumpy jumper where she had hugged the Irken.

"Do _you_ feel any different, Clara?"

She seemed conflicted; as if there was perhaps a grain of truth to Zim's sudden exclamations, but not enough to warrant a full-blown confession. "I have been feeling a little dizzy, but I haven't been getting that much sleep."

Dib grinded his jaw, worried to believe in Zim's bizarre claims for a moment, but also worried of not believing in them. "Clara, I think maybe we should get you checked out, just in case. If Zim's up to his usual deception, then we have nothing to worry about other than his bad choice of lies. If however he's right, and he can sense something we can't, I'd rather be safe than sorry."

"But it means leaving him, alone. I don't want to do that."

"I'll be fine." Zim stammered, looking _very_ annoyed.

Dib was unable to soften the next demand: "Zim, STOP hurting your arm like that!"

He did so, begrudgingly.

-x-

They sat in the doctor's waiting room side by side, Dib's hand uncomfortably squeezing on hers. Several times she had told him to ease up on the pressure.

She sat with her handbag on her lap as if it were a shield to hide behind. The room was stuffy and full of people waiting their turn to see the doctor. It had gone half four. They had expected to leave Zim alone for no longer than an hour and now they had been sitting here for almost two hours with little chance of being seen any time soon. She was grateful now to have left the mite with a small lunch to last him. She could not get over the way he had seen them off at the door; the total worry encompassing his face, the stilted way he walked as if the very weight of them never coming back was already a certainty.

Dib's hand clutched hers too fiercely again.

He _really_ wanted a cigarette.

And he was helpless to watch people leave their seats, and slip into the doctor's office one at a time. The cheap, plastic clock on the cracked plaster wall clapped out the seconds that blended inharmoniously with little kids crying. He hated these places. They carried these depressing undertones, and were infested with a chemical smell he could never quite place.

He leaned back, and tried to elude every nasty thought that came his way: the frequent worries and too frequent questions most husbands-to-be ask themselves. Was it cancer? What if it was cancer?

Could Zim sense the looming threat of illness in others? No, no, that was just stupid!

Oh but Zim was surely making it up, surely playing a mean-spirited joke on her? The ex-soldier couldn't help himself. That grain of evil in him would always resurface every now and then, like a bad smell from a drain. There was no reason to ever resent Zim's behaviour. He did what he did. To cope, perhaps. To belittle them because he felt belittled. As a hurt and punished child would drop a plate, so would Zim, and spite them back when he had been wronged.

"It's going to be nothing, Clara. I'm sure it will be nothing."

"But he looked so worried. He's sensed something. I'm sure." Then. "I wish we'd brought him with us."

"And pass him off as a child wearing an alien costume? Besides, it's too soon for him to be out the house."

"Well, I guess it's high time I had a check up anyway. I can't remember the last time I saw a doctor."

She was so forgiving. It hurt Dib for her to be so accepting of Zim's tomfoolery.

They waited for another ten minutes.

Her first and last name came up on the overhead screen above them: CLARA VERDEN ROOM 4. DR. HEMSWORTH.

"That's us." Dib kept clutching her hand, refusing to let go. They rose together, and went down the wide, pale blue corridor to room 4. Stencilled on a bronze coloured metal plaque was the name: Dr. H. Hemsworth. Dib opened the door.

The doctor turned towards them on his swivel chair. He was sitting at his desk by a computer. He rose, and shook Clara and then Dib's hand. He was an aged gentleman with brown hair heavily flecked with grey. His glasses he had absentmindedly left perched on the top of his balding head. He reminded Dib a little of Doc Brown from the movie: Back to the Future, but luckily this man looked far less eccentric than the titular character and far less harried.

"Ah, afternoon Miss. Vernon! And you are?" Christ, he even sounded like Doc Brown, with the gravelled voice and husky tones.

"Dib. Dib Membrane. I'm her fiancé. If it's okay, I'd like to stay as Clara's moral support."

"Of course, of course! Please! Have a seat!" He gestured at the two vacant seats by his desk. Clara sat down closest to the doctor, still clutching her handbag. Because she wouldn't pipe up first, Dr. Hemsworth breached the subject first. "And what appears to be the problem?"

Clara nervously looked to the doctor. She had no idea what to say, as she had no idea if there was anything wrong.

"I was wondering if I could just have a general check up." She said with sombre quietness. She didn't know how else to convey Zim's warning, if it was a warning, to the doctor without sounding like a hypochondriac.

"I'd like it if Clara was to have a blood test, and screened for cancer." Dib said, bowling into the delicate conversation with a no-time-to-waste attitude. "Please."

"And why the concern? Have you been displaying any unusual symptoms as of late?" Dr. Hemsworth kept his attention on Clara.

She only shrugged. "I've just been feeling a little tired but that could just be anaemia. I don't eat red meat, and I haven't been taking any iron tablets. I have... I have been feeling nauseous but it could just be a stomach bug."

The doctor nodded. "All right. I will perform some general tests in the room next door. Dib, I'd ask if you were to wait here."

He nodded. "Okay..." He felt weak inside. There was nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.

Dr. Hemsworth led Clara into the next room, a room for more private tests, such as blood tests and the like. Maybe even urine tests, who knew. That room probably had a bed for the patient to sit or lie down on.

Dib was forced to sit and wait, twiddling his thumbs with his eyes on the time. There was another big ugly cheap clock on the far wall with large hands. He had his wristwatch too, so he just kept glancing at both. The clock on the wall was precisely three minutes fast. Every so often he'd clutch at the vial around his neck, twisting it around at the base of the string, and back again.

The palms of his hands were sweaty. Leaving Zim alone was a huge gamble, and it directly disobeyed one of his father's sternest of rules.

He had visions of coming home and finding Zim unconscious. Maybe he was stressing out at this very moment, or...maybe the opposite was true, and he was having fun without them?

Dib heaved out a sigh, and slid his phone out of his pocket. If he called home, would Zim even pick up? There was a phone in the lounge that was close enough for him to reach, but what if he was upstairs, heard it chime, and had an accident on the way down? What if the simple noise of the phone scared the green out of him?

 _Just ring. And if he doesn't answer, leave a message so he can understand that's it's me calling._

 _Oh yeah. Like that'll work. He'll be too deaf to hear it anyway._

He dialled his home number anyway, figuring out he'd try. The dialling tones did their little musical notes, and he waited for the old bastard to pick up.

He waited. And waited.

After about two minutes, the answering machine kicked in.

Hearing his own recorded voice speak, he waited for the tone before saying: "Zim, it's me. We're gonna get home soon, okay? Nothing better be broken when we get back. We're still at the clinic, so I'll see you later I guess." What else could he say?

He put the phone away, wondering if Zim was perhaps using this opportunity to find all the hidden old-Zim memorabilia and paranormal files he had collected and then stashed in his childhood and teen years. They had been dumped in one corner of the basement, locked up in metal cases, along with his old PAK legs and tools. He could imagine Zim being daft enough to super glue the PAK legs back on him again.

But what if there was no trick, and no malice at play? What if Zim was still standing at the front door, frantic and worried; waiting for them to come home? They had left him standing all crooked in the hallway like a frightened animal when they had grabbed their respective bags and coats.

Dib combed his fingers through his black hair as he hunched forwards. He felt like he had been the one doing all the betraying, and not Zim at all. It left a bad taste in his mouth somehow, even though he had no idea yet if the doctor would find anything.

Twenty minutes passed by, and he could hear the soft, gentle pitch of Clara's voice as she spoke in demure tones to the doctor. He would not snoop. Would not barrel into the room to see what was up. No. He would be a good, reliant partner. He would wait.

It was almost a quarter to six when Clara finally left that little private room, all flushed and glassy-eyed as if she'd had a run through cold autumn winds. The doctor followed her out, and was polishing his glasses with a cloth. Dib leapt from his chair, and grabbed her cold hands in his. "Clara? What is it? Did the doc find anything?"

She hesitated, trying to look past him almost, as if she was ashamed. The fine shade of subtle mascara that she had applied under her eyes had smudged.

"You can tell me! I'm sure whatever it is, my dad can fix it!"

Dear god, had the doctor really found something? His mind was racing to all kinds of worries and ailments and diseases...

She looked ghosted somehow, as if he'd seen a grim secret in the doctor's room that was beyond her logic.

"Dib." She began, then hesitated as if her sure-fire courage had crumbled just as readily. She closed her eyes for a few moments, and then came out with it. "I'm pregnant."

But she said it as if it was a thing most terrible.

CHAPTER 62:

It had started to drizzle when they left the doctor's office. It covered the car in a fine wet skin.

Dib almost didn't feel the car's leather seat as he slid onto it, or the chilly cold as solemn clouds marched like an assemblage of soldiers across the sky to misplace the setting sun. As such, an unwelcome shadow filled the parking lot.

Clara joined him on the passenger seat on his right, clutching her bag just as tightly as she had done in the waiting room. Her eyes were like wary animals, flickering to and fro in search of predators.

He interlocked his fingers through hers. She jumped slightly. Then Clara tried to smile, but it dropped quickly.

He asked her about the tests she'd had and she told him the tests were painless, easy; the results coming back quick and clear.

"I asked him to double check. Dr. Hemsworth did. The results came back the same." She paused, looking befuddled and out of her depth. "Are you...pleased?" The gravity was in her eyes, her heart. They hadn't discussed kids much. Hadn't had the luxury. They had been too busy running from mad robots, saving heartbroken Irkens and keeping tabs on a passing semblance of normality. Putting the bricks down for their own life had been involuntarily put on hold many a time.

Dib deepened his grip on Clara's hand, and then clasped her into a half-clumsy, half-hungry embrace.

To be a father...

"Of course I am." He still could not believe it, like a poor man who had lived off scraps all his life couldn't possibly believe he'd suddenly inherited a million dollars. And he _was_ pleased. He supposed. "My dad's gonna be a grandfather. And I'm gonna be a...a dad!"

It just felt a little too soon though. A little too much right now. Maybe she felt the same, hence that haunted look in her glassy eyes.

"Aren't you happy, Clara?" He asked, searching her eyes, her face, her body language when they'd parted.

"I... I don't know." She smiled again, but it was a bleak attempt at divulging the real thing. "I think I am. I thought we'd wait a couple of years. How did this happen so quickly? I'm not even sure we're ready."

"Of course we're ready."

She stared ahead, through the windshield as rain drizzled onto the glass. "I wonder what Zim will think when we tell him."

"Should we tell him?" Dib settled his hands on the cold steering wheel.

"Of course we are! Silly!" She chuckled, mock hitting him with her handbag.

He backed the car out of the parking space and hit the road, still feeling high and heady as if he had just doped himself to the hilt with cocaine. It didn't feel real. Like owning a million dollars didn't feel real.

Everything was coming into place. It made him nervous for a reason he couldn't fathom.

"How many weeks along are you?" He asked.

"The doctor said around four weeks. It explains the headaches I've been getting. The dizzy spells when getting up. I thought I was just tired."

"And Zim's perceptions are off the board. He needs to seriously think about starting a career as a witch or wizard. Jesus. Aliens. How did he _know_?"

"He's a perceptive little guy."

The windwipers worked at the rain while his mind tried to do the same thing with this deluge of worry. "Gotta tell my sister. My dad."

"Your sister?"

"You've met her, right? Gaz?"

"Once. At the hospital when you were injured."

"And will you drop the news on your step parents?"

"No." She said without having to think about it. "I don't want them to know."

"They have a right to know." He said, hoping he wouldn't make her angry by saying this.

They hadn't planned this pregnancy. She had missed taking a contraceptive by mistake, fool for her, and neither she nor Dib had been in the mood.

"Well," Dib continued, "looks like we might be getting married earlier than we'd planned!"

This evoked a truer smile from her. "You're sure you're not mad?"

It was hard to look at her straight to ram home the seriousness he felt about being a father when he was driving, so he did all he could to reassure her in words. "I'm gonna be a dad, Clara! This is great! We need to get you booked in for a scan. They do that, right? And no more heavy lifting for you!"

"I'm not weak and pathetic!" She giggled, a line she had taken from the notorious Irken. They both laughed.

He drove them up the last hill, turning into Canvas, and parked in front of the house. A cruel cold had risen up, and the sun, trapped for the duration of the evening, wasn't making a return. He got out, and watched Clara walk to the front door.

There was something growing in her now. It was hard to imagine it, hard to conceive it.

What had his father felt in the discovery of his mother's pregnancy? Was he happy? Excited? Worried? Even angry or scared?

He felt like there were not just butterflies in his stomach, but in his blood and in his brain as well, as if they were taking over control of his limbs and his actions.

Now he felt like Zim when he asked himself; _what do I do with babies?_

He felt like he needed to start reading encyclopaedias on them.

"Dib, it's locked."

"Sorry, huh...?" He broke reluctantly out of his thoughts with a jolt.

"I can't get it open."

"What do you mean?" He sidled up beside her, took the keys from her hand and tried himself. The tumbler in the lock turned, but the door did not open. It had been locked from the inside. Zim must have slipped home the bolts. He shot a look at the array of cameras under the eave and waved a hand frantically at them. "Hey, idiot! Let us in! We're home!"

"The cameras don't have audio yet." She exclaimed.

"Oh great. So if he's not looking at the security feed, he won't know? Jesus!" Temper getting the better of him; he started banging on the door, amply using his fists and the metal doorknocker. He stood back after making a sufficient racket, lips pursed, hands winding into fists. They waited in the spitting wind and rain. The door did not open. "I'm going to see if I can access the back door. You wait here."

"But the fence!"

"I'll see if I can climb over it."

"You'll hurt yourself!"

He ducked low under a growing bush of honeysuckle and hurried down the side of the house. He reached the first span of fence, and tried the wooden back gate. It was locked as well, no surprises there. Stepping back, he briefly gave a quick inspection of the fence's summit. It was a long horizontal line of large, wooden triangles all the way to the back of the garden.

He couldn't believe he was trying to break in to his own goddamn house, and Clara was waiting at the front door, getting cold. Hell, it was still likely that Zim would realize his mistake and let her in.

Dib measured how far he'd have to jump to reach the pinnacle of the fence. This was not his ideal route, and in his younger alien-crusade days, this would have been no obstacle at all, but he was in his middle thirties and he was losing that spring in his step. He feared injury more so now than he did back then, and with the heavy knowledge of being a father-to-be, his self-preservation had never been greater.

He took another step back and then ran at the fence, jumping as high as he could. His hand made a wild swing at the fence post, managing to acquire some grip. He grabbed at the wood with his other hand, and pulled his body up. The dark garden rose into view. It was quiet. Nothing to hear but the sprinkle of rain.

Swinging his legs over was the biggest hurdle yet. He didn't want to skewer a thigh, his crotch. Getting stuck up here was not his idea of fun and his hands took a beating from the hard, scratchy wood as he manoeuvred himself over as quickly as he was able. He felt a tip of triangle tear into his buttocks as he pushed himself off, and he landed awkwardly in Clara's newly planted rose patch. The fall wasn't graceful, and his ankle buckled under him. He cursed. But he'd made it over.

When he next took a step, he stumbled under the pain. He tried to lurch forwards on it anyway as he limped to the backdoor. He tackled the handle, but it would not turn. It was locked too.

"ZIM!" He banged on it, anger sluicing into worry. Why wasn't he answering? Could he not hear them? Again, the cameras out here glared down at him from their dark silent lenses.

Getting wetter in the drizzle and ever more desperate, he glanced around for another way.

There! The kitchen window was open by about an inch. He scrabbled painfully over to it, and hooked his fingers under its ledge. He pulled it open a little more, and then swung it wide. It would be a tight fit. These windows weren't designed to be opened all the way, only by about 90 degrees. He was thankful for his skinny build.

Purchasing a foothold on a potted plant, he squeezed his shoulders through the opening. The pot teetered under his weight. Beneath his nose was the sink and faucets. The kitchen itself was eerily quiet and dark.

"Zim?" He entreated, hoping he'd see the alien saunter in through the doorway from the hall and smile leeringly at the way his human was caught halfway out the window.

He reached in with one arm, and scrabbled for a faucet as leverage to pull him in with. The potted plant fell over, and he nearly popped right out the window, but he held on, and squirmed on through like a snake. Plates and cups fell from the drying rack to the floor, creating enough of a racket to alarm even the deafest of Irkens.

Finally inside, Dib jumped down onto the linoleum floor with a hiss of pain. He was in!

Leaving muddy boot prints as he went, he limped through the kitchen to the hallway. He shunted aside the bolts and opened the door. Clara bustled in, stripping off her wet coat. "Did he let you in?"

"No." He gulped, out of breath, his skin hot and clammy from the exertions, "Had to climb over the damn fence, then squeezed in through back window."

"I told you we shouldn't have left him alone. He must have worried." She said.

"That's no reason for him to lock us out like that."

"And you're limping!"

"Yeah, well, that fence has quite a drop."

"We'll get you some ice, or it'll swell."

They went into the kitchen. Dib carefully removed his muddy boots, feeling how stiff his ankle was already getting. "I'm going to go look for him. My ankle can wait."

"Dib." When she looked at him from the counter, her face was whiter than it had been in the cold and rain. He looked bewilderingly her way. "One of the kitchen knives is missing."

The knife board had four steak knives. Only three sat in their custom slots.

* * *

 **Dib07:** If you specifically want an update, please ask away! In the meantime I'll be working on other projects! Thanks so much for reading! Hope you enjoyed!


	5. Heart of Glass

**Saving Zim: Epilogue by Dib07**

 _ **Summary:**_

 _When you had it all. When old age forces you to change._

 _When life isn't what you'd imagined._

 _When you aren't prepared to be so powerless._

 _When a soldier's undetermined future remains his greatest fear._

 _ **Disclaimer:**_

 _I do not own the IZ characters. However this story and this idea is mine._

 _Cover art beautifully made by_ _Truekrisstianity!_ _All credit goes to her,_ _please do not use without his permission, thank you :)_

 _ **Warnings:**_

 _Character death. Character angst. Blood. Swearing. Gary._

* * *

 **Dib07:** Hi all! Gotta be a little bit honest here; I owe you that. The reviews I received - and kept receiving long after this story had been put on hold made me feel so UTTERLY HAPPY that this story was still being enjoyed and loved, and yet the reviews made me feel guilty because I had stopped updating. Why? Because of grievances and fears that I'd continued this story for way too long, and that it was a good idea as any to put it to rest. But every word of feedback since worsened that guilt. Because this story was wanted. And I can't ignore that. I caved. I hope you enjoy what I have on offer. Honestly it's just a load of baloney and well, anxious Irken. But. Eh.

Special thanks to some very remarkable reviewers and supporters who flooded my heart with SUPREME FEEDBACK!: _Piratemonkies64, RissyNicole, fialeur, HotCrossPigeon, Wu the Stoic, Megxolotl, the-siRNA, Invader Johnny and Rocky Rooster!_

Another special thanks to **Piratemonkies64** aka **Slothfantasy** on Tumblr who made the _Saving Zim audio chapters_ possible! Chapter 11 is out: _Blood and Rain!_ It is an absolute DREAM to listen to, and feels so real it's insane! You can check it out on youtube! She has done amazing work, I am just so thrilled! Please go check it out!

 **Guest:**

Hello there! Hope you never gave up on me entirely, and still haunt this site, awaiting the moment I update chapter 5! Please forgive me!

 **Gaz:**

Hello SF! OOoh GOSH I THINK I know who you are, but really I'm a dumb goose and have no idea! I know another who goes by the initials SF! XD So good to hear from you anyway! Yes it's been too long I know! I kinda took a backseat, not realizing that so many would want this story back haha!

 **abadaabadaabada:**

Your wish is my command!

 **Lee:**

Thank you so much for leaving feedback, and placing your concerns. Honestly, you, among others, is the reason I updated!

 **fialeur:**

I am so glad you came and wrote feedback. When I saw your review, that started the guilt straight away of me not updating any time soon, and your review came not long after HotCrossPigeon had left their amazing and heartfelt feedback. And I couldn't exactly reply to you either UNLESS I updated, and I got this MIGHTY NEED to reply to reviewers! XD Your feedback was such a gift for me. I hope you enjoy this update too. I wonder how close your imagination came to what will happen in this chapter, and the future ones as well! I hope you get to see this update fairly soon, bless you, as you've waited so long for this. Your English is very good! Don't you worry! I am so glad you are enjoying this! Your compliments again are high praise indeed! Thank you, so much, for being supportive.

* * *

 **CHAPTER 5: Heart of Glass**

"I've got this feeling."

"Not this again!" He put his face behind his long claws. "We don't go by feelings! The statistic report! Read it again! Or better yet, download it into your PAK so we don't have to keep ruminating like grubs over these 'feelings' of yours!" He was tired of this. They had been battling against the Keri for five solid Irk weeks, and all Purple could think about was _that_ runt. When Red wanted to discuss armoury rations, and what angle of attack they should go for next, and where they should safely move their snack supply, Tallest Purple would be a galaxy away in his mind. He could not concentrate, even during the moment when the Massive was temporarily under siege.

And the war was a mounting problem. The usual javelin tactic of blasting through the enemy frontline hadn't done the trick as it may have done a hundred times before. The Keri had fought back, possessing a military might of their own with faster ships with stronger hulls.

Purple, ignoring the packet of snacks that Red shook in an attempt to claim his attention, glided over to a console and began going over the data again, data he had hunted through many times over.

The report contained nothing noteworthy or anything irregular to rouse any further interest except for one minor detail. The Irken's last report had been a successful affirmation of the outpost's destruction. Further investigation proved this, for nothing received their messages. They got dead silence in return with not even a ghost of an echo. But there had been a primary failure in the launch of the autodoc. And this was what was eating Purple.

"He's dead." Red said, knowing his words would fall on numb antennae. "His final PAK reports are all the proof you need."

"Why did the autodoc fail? It never fails!"

"Maybe Zim underestimated the detonation timer, and his base blew up before the autodoc could launch."

"We need to check! Send someone to check!"

"What, and waste resources on a dead soldier? No. We've got a war to fight!"

"But the autodoc!"

"Forget the autodoc! He blew up! He must have, or his PAK would still be sending out signals!"

Purple's claws paused over the touchpad of the console. Slowly he turned to look back at Red who held his gaze with a fierce intensity. He was daring Purple to challenge his verdict.

Purple gazed back at the data screen for a long, brooding moment. There was no riddle behind the figures. Numbers did not lie. Even so, he could not shake away the maddening sense that something had gone wrong.

-x-

He stood staring at the door with cool hooded eyes of crimson fuchsia, a hand resting heavily on one hip. But when he heard the rattle and groan of the old car's engine, his prideful pose slumped alongside a former defiance that was no longer quite so ironclad under his paper-thin surface. Panic poured over him in a cold rush. The gashes up his arm stung.

 _They can't do this to me! THEY CAN'T JUST LEAVE!_

Another voice spoke from the fading shreds of his former courage: _Who needs them! Let them go!_

A part of that same courage collapsed in on itself, and he was so close to opening the door and running out to try and stop them. But there was no stool to jump up on, and there was no time. The growl of the car faded from his hearing and the vicinity, and he knew they were gone.

Zim entertained no delusions that he was totally and utterly alone. The house seemed to shuffle outwards, growing larger and larger until he felt lost and consumed in a dark ghostly cathedral. Every noise was a possible tread of some threat, imagined or not. Every _clink_ or thump or creak of the house was someone moving around, someone drawing nearer.

Something black flickered, moving to one side of his vision. He jolted round, sucking in a whimper.

There was nothing there.

His wits were all that he had, that and his battle training, which was really not much good at all when his weapons had been confiscated.

Zim fetched himself up against the door, hoping the humans would change their silly little minds and come running back to him. There was no need to go rushing out. And whatever for? What had he done that had caused them to flee like they had? They'd be back soon. They couldn't leave him.

As if his emotions were a compass always swinging north he kept thinking back to the moment when disappointment had flashed into Dib's eyes.

What if Clara was _really_ sick? And what if he had made her that way somehow? He couldn't be sure. He'd been sick for so long, that he naively wondered if he had somehow passed it on to her.

It could be just a human thing.

They were weird after all.

He wouldn't be all that surprised if they burst back in with Dib saying that Clara was metamorphing into the next stage of the human being or something. Dib went through these changes aplenty in the mornings. Zim would march into their bedroom when it was much too late for his comrades to be sleeping in, and the young man would sit up, and do the usual tedious stretching and yawning, only for Zim to see a full wedge of black alien growth on Dib's chin and cheeks. The first time he saw it he kind of freaked.

"It's just stubble! Hair!" He remembered Dib saying. "I shave it off every morning."

"And... and if you don't... d-don't shave?"

He imagined Dib to be COVERED in hoary black curly hair until he was just some fluffy black hairball that couldn't move if he didn't shave. And when humans didn't gross him out, they scared him half to death with their alien biology. "I grow a beard, I guess." Dib had explained with such absurd nonchalance as if this facial mutation was normal. "You've seen people with moustaches and whiskers on their faces right? They're just beards."

"I thought they were just abnormally born that way."He had fretfully croaked.

"Hey, didn't one of your alien disguises come with a grey beard?"

"Was that what that was?"

He had even let Zim touch the stubble, in the hopes that it would calm his nerves, but as soon as he had put his claws to it, he had shied back, freshly startled. It was like touching the edge of a razor blade the hairs were that sharp! So Clara might be going through a different kind of change or the same change: of strange things growing out of her all of a sudden.

As worried as he was about Clara, he couldn't help but feel aggravated and provoked. They had just left him here: in a house that wasn't yet a fortified safe haven. The only protection this archaic house of bricks had was a flimsy wooden door at both ends. The vulnerability of this situation made him shiver. He tasted a very real and very unsavoury defencelessness that he hadn't felt for a long time. Sweat began to dampen the fabric of his clothes at his armpits and neck. His old heart raced nonstop. Barbs of pain closed around his chest and throat.

 _Gotta breathe._

 _Just breathe._

 _The panic will go away!_

"Computer!" He throatily wailed. The house gave its silence in answer. "Gir!"

Where had he left that doll?

He tried to affect nonchalance as he marched across the hallway and headed slowly up the stairs, his left foot dragging. The climb made his hips and knees ache something awful, but he got to the top, breathing down heavy sips of air. The Gir doll had been left on the cushioned seat at the window. Grey light turned his lilac walls into something unwelcomingly sombre and dull. There were no shields to duck under. No reinforced walls clasping over the entry point to keep him safe. The panic had followed him up here as well.

 _What if...what if they never come back?_

The horror of it stilled him.

What if they had an accident? They could crash into another car for instance, or what if a tree had fallen on them and the car had burst into flame?

He started pacing up and down the carpet, something he did compulsively in the deep subterranean layers of his base when something particularly troublesome bothered him. Usually in these situations, his computer doled out advice. It calmed him. Gave him solutions he might have otherwise been too blinded by anger to see. Now there was only the pressure of his own stresses, his own thoughts that helped to swirl him deeper and deeper into a self-made torment.

He muttered and ranted under his breath.

They had no right to leave him here, unadjusted as he still was to this crazy life. This was NOT what he had bargained for.

 _"Play the piano! Piano helps!"_

"No, Gir, no." He croaked with a grimace. He wasn't sure anything could take his mind off this mountain of worry.

Everything had been so much simpler when he was a soldier. He at least had control.

He bit his claws into his arm to steady the shakes. When he coughed, the barbs of pain tightened a moment.

He flung a look to his desk and computer. Work. He needed work.

Sitting in his little soft seated chair that could spin, he gazed bleakly into the black of the screen. He jabbed a bony claw on the power button. But his new computer brought no solace.

He had zero concentration as his insides twisted and turned. Any sliver of motivation he had had fallen to ash in his mouth, and even simple arithmetical data made no sense to his panic-spewing mind. In the end he was doomed to be led by his own paranoia, and was soon compulsively hitting the F11 key that cycled through the monitors of his overhead security cameras that offered up perfect views of the front yard and back yard. Even though nothing showed itself outside, Zim worked his claws into his left arm. Slightly numbed there, he couldn't feel the nicks so much, or feel the first spots of blood flowering in the fabric.

He felt like he was falling.

His imagination created every possible foe, every potential disaster. He kept looking behind him, expecting to see a monster standing there.

A cat of grey and ginger made its airy and proud way across the back porch with its bushy tail held high. Zim hit the intercom button on his computer super quick, but when he shouted at the screen, he realized in a spitting rage that he hadn't installed audio feed. It was yet another memento of this newfound helplessness. Never had he had to rework so much from scratch.

The cat would have to be dealt with the manual way.

Down the stairs he went, Gir doll being crushed against his chest as he made his wonky way down.

How long had it been now since they'd left? Thirty minutes? It had to have been an hour, but when he jerkily looked to the clock on the kitchen wall he saw that barely eight minutes had passed. Surely they would've got to the human clinic by now and were on their way back?

The kitchen was still in a sorry state. Dib had left the kitchen window over the sink open a tad to encourage the smoke and oil smell to drift out but it still stank. Zim trod over bits of chipped white plastic with his loafers as he worked his way towards the back door. Using the little padded stool from the table, he shifted it over, left the doll leaning up against the table leg and worked at the door handle. He opened it cautiously, and a new world of threats looked back in on him. The afternoon was darkening. The garage, just a stone's throw away had become a heaped foreboding shack. The trees loomed far to the distance like assembled soldiers. A flush of rain hit him full in the face, and he let out a squeal that sent him scurrying back inside. Half blinded, he shoved against the door, hearing it click shut.

He was marooned inside a humble home that listed with shadows and sounds he did not understand.

"Computer! Lock the doors! Lock the windows!"

 _Stop calling for it! IT DOESN'T WORK! Computer this! Computer that! Little worm that you are, hiding behind your empty orders!_

Something was going to get in and get him. He was a bug caught in sticky tape. Even if he could hide beneath a bed, it offered no more protection. He needed sealing walls. Laser walls. Shutter doors. Turrets. He needed to get underground. Being on the top floor of his base was all fine and dandy but every so often his vulnerabilities lured him back down to the base where he was protected.

He ran a hand over the burning skin where the rain had hit him, blinking timidly as he checked his vision. He hadn't been able to hear the rain, but he could feel its misty cold in the house and in the air. He could smell the dampness now from when he'd opened the door. It affected his lungs and skin in the same way toxic smoke did.

Wobbly balancing himself on the stool, he flicked down every lock on the backdoor. He had added quite a few in the last few days. A extra bolt here. An extra lock there. You didn't even need a key.

Then he spun round, eyes wide, planting himself against the wood as if something was thumping to get in.

There was no Voot to take flight in, nowhere to bed down with tons of steel above and around him. No Gir to allay him with his useless but comforting chatter. His mind was being tugged towards a sinkhole.

He clutched his claws into fists as he crouched by the door, rocking himself to and fro.

 _It's fine! Fine FINE FINE! They'll be back any minute! I know it!_

But what if they were never coming back? What if, this whole time, Dib had been lying to him? And he and Clara wanted to set up a new life where it was just the two of them? What if they had had a mind to stay, only for him to fuck up the washing machine, proving to them once and for all how incapable he was of living with them?

They could be running it to the authorities right now to alert the Government Men!

He knew in his heart that they loved him, and that they wouldn't do anything of the sort, but tortured and twisting thoughts kept superseding anything into a strangled panic that acted like the salvos of enemy fire.

He felt sick. All this fear was lending him nothing but nausea and an upset spooch.

 _It's just a house of bricks and wood! Nothing's getting in! They'll be here!_

He was going to be sick. His mouth filled with saliva. His claws were clammy with sweat; sweat was running down between his eyes, could feel it dripping down his chest.

Leaving the doll, he opened a cupboard for a bowl or something, one hand gripping his mouth.

There was no time to pick and choose. He grabbed the closest thing: a frying pan, and held it close. But he didn't throw up.

His arms and legs kept shaking; body a hot and feverish thing.

Something nagged his antenna. He looked up at the bare ceiling – a ceiling that bereft of tubing. It was thunder, roaming in the dark of the sky far above the house. Peels of lightning flashed in the heavens, and the rain fell harder: hitting the roof like bullets.

Thunder and lightning made his antenna go all twitchy. At least the rags of his left didn't seem to be affected by it anymore.

Hot, sticky with sweat, he took off his pink hoodie, exposing his dark velvet shirt that was sodden with sweat. Gripping the metal curve of the frying pan with both juddering claws, he suddenly heaved up whatever was in his spooch: then he leant back, breathing quickly. He felt better, strangely. But dizzy.

The provocative grandfather clock in the hallway did its stupid homage to the time again, striking the hour.

He was in a place where he wasn't in total control. And he wasn't in total control of his humans either, or of himself for that matter. He was a great manipulator of chaos but didn't like being the one in chaos.

He was not one to sit on his hands and wait either. Nuisances he challenged, problems he tackled. But waiting like this was a torture in of itself.

He was broken from his tumultuous reverie when he felt onerous vibrations play at his right antenna. They were coming from the front door. Bright hope lit up his eyes. They'd come back!

He struggled to his feet, dragging the Gir doll with him. He took one step into the hallway when he saw a shadow, black and hulking, loom outside the front door. He did an about turn and fled like lightning under the dining table. Then there came a raucous knocking, followed by the shrill scream of the doorbell. Zim wrapped his arms around his head, teeth chattering, eyes bulging from their sockets. More knocking followed, so stern that the whole door seemed to shake.

The enemy was here! They were probing the walls, looking for weaknesses! Access!

There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide!

A wash of painful shivers shot through his old bones, causing his legs to lurch into an uncontrollable spasm.

He needed a weapon! He craved the security and protection of his PAK legs – PAK legs he had reason to suspect might be somewhere in the house. Dib had hidden them, the bastard.

He had this manic hope of reattaching them somehow, and imagined how blissful it would be to don his old wings again.

Dib had Tak's ship too, stuffed in the garage like some old forgotten heirloom. A part of him rebelled against the idea of seeing the ship, in the fear that it would incalculably reaffirm how old and redundant he was in the face of it; that his former glory days were further and further from his point of existence.

Something was being shoved through the letterbox.

He flinched, curling up tighter under the table, teeth bared, eyes pinched shut.

It had to be a grenade. Or maybe it was a hand reaching in, hunting for the doorknob.

Then it was all so very quiet except for his rough, heaving breaths.

The Gir doll lay on its side on the kitchen floor, smiling softly.

His watery fuchsia eyes looked to the cupboard drawers some twenty feet away. He could hop onto one of the pull-down platforms made just for him and reach into the utensil drawer for a knife. It was a primordial weapon hardly worth his esteem but it was better than not having it.

Cold shivers tormented him, one after the other as if his thermostat was broken. He pulled his hoodie top back on, but he had put it on back to front.

Working up false courage, he crept out from under the table.

He'd suffered enemy bombardment on the planet Zephyr 901B. He'd endured the battle of the Irken War in the frontlines while suppressing enemy fire from an uprising of heretics. He'd survived countess space voyages. But this was a new type of battlefield entirely, one he had not been trained for.

Zim opened up the stepping platform, eyes ghosting over to the doorway every second. Slowly he edged open the cupboard drawer and put his hand into it without looking. A steak knife opened the skin on his index claw. He lifted it up, staring at the dark dab of green as it bubbled to the surface.

The wind outside picked up, causing the trees to shake and moan. Rain stormed in through the open window. Quickly he scooped up the knife and hit the floor with a squeaking of loafers.

He was too afraid to peer round and see if they were still standing at the front door. He stood to attention, PAK pressed against the wall, the basic knife held close to his chest. This life wasn't as he had dreamed it. He felt betrayed by his humans. Tears gathered thickly in his eyes.

They'd disarmed him.

Abandoned him.

Something inside wanted to explode. And so he screamed, screaming long and shrill into the silence of the house.

This was his punishment for deserting his duty. For getting comfy with the enemy. For letting them fiddle around with his PAK.

Outside, the wind joined his screams. Leaves hurled through the sky as black clouds swelled darkly in the heavens. The rain curtained everything under a steady veil of tears.

-x-

Hours later, with the sky now black and cold, the roadside peppered in the frosty glare of the streetlights, Dib had worked his way over the garden fence, hurt his ankle on the drop down, and had crawled his way in through the window.

He let Clara in. Her honeyed brown hair glistened with raindrops.

They made their way into the kitchen, the room aglow with comforting light.

The house was quiet. The grandfather clock ticked in the hall; its strokes thick and sombre. Dib massaged the spike of hurt in his ankle.

It was fair to say he was beginning to feel more than a little uneasy when no alien was arriving to greet them. Zim was a very punctual and alert little guy; sensitive to all comings and goings as every Irken should be, but Dib had only seen the labyrinth of the Irken's mind from one small approach, the rest being soaked in unknowable darkness.

Clara had not moved from the counter. Her actions had turned into the portended reflexes of a cat. Her eyes were shimmery with nervous tension as she rechecked the countertops. Then she pulled open the door of the dishwasher with a heavy jerk. It was empty save for a few dinner plates.

There was a light sheen of perspiration on her brow, her eyes staring afresh at the knifeboard. Then, slowly warming up, she started moving around the counter tops, trying to locate it, her eyes flashing over to every utensil and cup.

It was like she was looking for a goddamn venomous snake.

"I can't find it." She opened and closed drawers, sometimes opening the same ones she had already checked.

"Let's not spook all at once, okay? You know he's too sick and old to do any damage." He went to stand, remembering just in time to put his full weight on his good ankle. Then he put her hand on her arm, causing her to startle. He was surprised at her nervousness. "I'm sure it's just been misplaced."Even though he spoke candidly, and moved candidly, his senses were on high alert, his mind discerning everything at a wider scope before his eyes could. This heightened state of awareness was not unlike a soldier's perception: of how Zim viewed his stressful world every waking moment.

"No." She said, refusing to be baited by his passivity. "He's taken it. Dib. Dib I don't like this."

His stomach plunged at that moment, and his fingers drew to ice. It was that gut-punch feeling, that feeling you taste, when you know you're in trouble at the office, or that moment your foot drops when you're climbing a cliff-face. He hated that feeling as much as the impending doom of it. He swallowed, remembering the thick and fast memory of a time when he'd felt that sickening dread the most - when he'd been in Tak's ship far above Earth's orbit - when all the screens and dials blinked back at him in red.

That smothering dread, when he knew he'd never be able to go back home.

"He's... he's a soldier. Dib. Those weapons your father took out of that machine on his back..."

"He's not a danger."

"Yes, but, what about up here?" And she tapped her forehead.

It was hard for her, he realized, to blunt the memory of that time when Zim had clung to the corner of the lounge, covered in the long snaky barbs of his PAK: crouching there like a metal spider. Clara had never seen him spring those PAK legs out like that, making such a little thing seem so much larger.

"I... I don't know him as well as you." She continued.

"Let's go into the lounge. You can sit there and wait while I go find him. He's probably just hiding. He'll brighten up as soon as we tell him the good news." He was perturbed by her anxious behaviour. Knowing she had new life growing inside her was probably the reason: that strong sense of self-preservation. After all, despite Zim's age, he was still a soldier with deep psychotic trenches not always seen, with a mind that could morph into anything with the paranoia that helped shape it.

With Dib limping ahead of her, he flicked the light switch on. The lounge appeared before them, with minimal evidence of disturbance. The plate of peach slices was untouched on the coffee table, and the lid on the piano had been lifted up. Dib snugged it closed again, trying to remember if it had been left that way before they'd left.

Clara sat down on the sofa, her eyes searching every inch of corner. They could hear the scratching of the wind outside, and the pouring of rain did not help allay the mood, only serve to elevate the unordinary disquiet.

Though Dib knew there couldn't be – and shouldn't be - anything to worry about, he felt that old ambience of intimidation that only Zim had been able to provide – that only Zim _could_ make him feel. As soon as he put his foot into the invader's base, even on the preliminary level, there came that great unease when he knew he had now entered a place where he wasn't in total control – where Zim's territory promised a degree of danger. He refused to feel this way in his own home – refused to still be that child of eleven. Zim had no plethoric Irken tech falling out of his sleeves anymore. He wasn't sitting on a throne, chin resting on the back of his hand with that patented, easy sneer he gave.

"Zim? Hey, space boy? We're home. If you're hiding, you can come out now. There's no one else with us."

He limped out of the lounge doorway, ignoring Clara's moan of frustration when he left her side.

Lying on the inside doormat that had the words WELCOME imprinted on its fuzz was a leaflet. It must have been posted through the letterbox. He bent down and picked it up. It was from the postal service.

'YOU HAVE MISSED YOUR DELIVERY.' It read in black capital letters.

Then his eyes skirted to the interior of the door, seeing two bolts, and three locks. Zim had fortified this place into the early beginnings of a Fort Knox. Dib had watched him pace the front entryway for many minutes before being sure that the door would hold. That it was locked. That he could relax.

Clara was moving suddenly of her own accord, no longer waiting and watching. She was heading up the stairs before he could.

He shuffled after her, trying to make as much noise as possible. Clara turned on every light switch she approached until every room was ablaze with light.

The Irken's bedroom they checked on first. The computer was all lit up like a store-front window; the monitor active with camera feed, the screen split into individual panoramas of each angle. Dib viewed the keyboard and desk, about to move on again, when he noticed that one of the keys was indented slightly, as if he had been rundown with use even though the keyboard was new. It was the F11 key. He tapped on that key, and watched the monitor feed cycle through its angle. Tapping it again and he could see the front porch in the rain. It didn't take great detective work to figure out that Zim had sat here, obsessively hitting that same key again and again and again.

Across the carpet was a spread of diagrams that suggested everything cryptic, and on his desk by the keyboard was a modified radio that cackled menacingly; groggy voices were coming through the other side in incoherent splutters amongst the heavy static. To stop it unnerving Clara's already scattered mind, he turned it off at the wall, but the silence following its eerie static wasn't much better.

There were no more answers to be found here, so he turned round, and that's when he saw the jagged marks across the wallpaper. He bent down, resting his ankle at a slant, and ran his hands over the torn peels of paper.

This act was not repeated. Everything else in the bedroom remained undamaged, but what he was seeing was starting to hint at something larger.

"Zim? Hey?" Awkwardly, he crouched low enough to see under the bed. He wasn't there.

Last he checked, Irkens couldn't turn invisible, right?

He stood back up, and flittered through the rooms.

Clara was standing in front of the blue door. The door which stood open. The front and back panels containing the handle and keyhole was laying on the floor, complete with aborted screws. Zim, not having to rely on force, had applied his cunning instead, and had simply stood on a stool, and worked loose the panels with a screwdriver and pliers. Getting past an ordinary lock had been no problem at all.

Dib opened the door slightly, hearing the old hinges creak. "Zim?"

The room was quiet in its reply.

The loose boards of wood that he had left leaning against the wall had all come down, creating a jumble on the floor with the nails sticking up. Trailing electrical leads from old computers that he had meant to dismantle and then throw away had been viciously attacked by the looks of it. Storage boxes had been opened; their contents emptied with careless abandon.

Their own bedroom had not been spared of this strange and unexplained mania. Dib's walnut wardrobe had been ransacked. Clothing lay in chaotic heaps as if Zim had wanted only to be spiteful. But, as Dib looked over the mess, he began to suspect that he may have been looking for something.

"Why is he doing this?" Clara was looking around, not sure what do to. It looked like they had suffered a burglary.

This would have taken time for Zim to do since his left side could not lift or hold weighted objects for long, and his condition meant that he got tired quickly.

There weren't many places left to check, but when he remembered the basement his heart again did that sickening drop.

The basement was usually mistaken for a cloakroom or store cupboard, the little door standing between the kitchen entryway and the grandfather clock. And perhaps, Zim's reasoning to go down there wasn't all that strange. It was perhaps the only place in the house that resembled anything like his old base: being underground; helping him feel cocooned protectively from the world.

If not for his precarious health, Dib would have let him set up a mini base down there instead, but they had wanted to keep Zim close, not just to benefit his wellbeing, but to provide him with their company.

"I...I think I know where he is." He left the master bedroom, and headed back down the stairs, Clara taking longer to follow as her enthusiasm drained.

Dib opened the old wooden door beside the grandfather clock. It was dark down there. He reached up and flicked the light switch on at the wall. The stone steps came starkly into view.

"Zim?" He started down slowly, pain biting into his bad ankle every time he tried to put weight on it.

There were some garbled mutterings, made even more unintelligible by the way the basement made everything echo slightly. There was also a very low, very faint beeping noise, like when a phone has a recorded message that hasn't been activated.

Dib reached the bottom of the stairs and looked around. Down here were old boxes containing newspapers, magazines, VHS tapes, and his old UFO memorabilia. This place was easily the size of a double bedroom.

As he looked, his eyes combing every breadth of floor, he saw a stain on the old, worn carpet, and a series of notches near it, as if someone had come along and dragged their claws through its fibres. But the stain was not blood. He knelt, and touched the damp patch with a fingertip. It had gone cold, but was still wet. When he tentatively sniffed his fingers, they smelt of ammonia. A little further along the carpet, and there were the definite signs of vomit.

Carefully he stood back up, and when he peered over the congestion of boxes he spotted the little Irken. He was sitting in the far corner, head leaning against the wall, his little knees covered up with Dib's black jacket. His eyes were large and bright and staring. As soon as his mind acknowledged a presence, he snapped towards the disturbance with idiosyncratic alarm. There was no knowing if he was looking at him, or through him, but his eyes were cogently clear and reflective.

His clothing was strangely dishevelled. He was wearing his hoodie back-to-front, one sleeve rolled all the way up, the other left to dangle over his wrist as if he had been pulling hard on it. In the claws of his right he held the steak knife. It was dangling loosely, the pointy end hanging towards the floor. Both sleeves were riddled with rips that showed the fabric's interior lining.

Not far from his bare toes lay his old PAK legs. All four of them, lying limply over each other like a sleeping pile of metal snakes.

 _That was what he had been after._ He realized, feeling a rush of cold guilt.

The beeping was slightly louder, as if Zim was the source. It remained slow, monotonous.

"Zim?" He beseeched, softly, "What happened? What are you doing down here?" He paused a moment, wondering how close he should get. How much or how little Zim would tolerate his comfort. He was no longer like the wild creature Dib first knew, and liked to be cuddled more so than ever, but there was a look of wildness in Zim now, as if he did not know the humans he lived with.

Greenish murk ran from his nigh-invisible left nasal slit. His breathing was short and quick: mimicking the hyperventilating tempo of his chest. Dib watched the three fingers of his right hand start to squeeze on the handle of the knife.

"We're back, Fudge!" He said again. "It's okay! Now put down the knife."

He wasn't even sure if Zim was aware he was holding it. He had only the confused, lost look of a loon in an Asylum.

Could he even hear him? Or see him standing there?

He had reduced his clothing down to rags, as if, in a state of madness, he had besmirched his own prestige, and had attacked the clothes he wore as if he had grown hateful of them.

This eerie uncharacteristic side of him was not just scary, but perverted. The Irken usually moved, and behaved with fathomless purpose, his destination clear, even to an external viewer who did not know him well. Before he had even made a move, he had a predetermined itinerary to follow, a premeditated plan to chase. Opposing the very merits of this imperious nature however, he dopily just sat and stared, one arm folded across his chest and over the collar of Dib's jacket as if he was huddling against himself. The misshapen way the clothes hung off him only helped exhibit this terrifying mania.

It was as if, during their absence, he had stepped back into the shadows of his old self, only to get confused with who he had become. Who he was now.

Dib stepped forwards. He knew Zim, surely. He knew him more than anybody ever could know him but there were always subtleties he could never quite shine a light on, for a part of the Irken would always remain alien to him. For example, when they'd be sitting, watching TV, or talking, Zim would suddenly do this hard flick of his right antenna with no other input. The dark glimmer in his eyes was just as misunderstood as it was years ago. His thoughts and his actions would always be this twisting, turning dark maze.

What if Dib didn't know half of the abuse the military had put him through?

What if Zim still couldn't switch off?

Just because he had checked his guns at the door, didn't mean it would stop him being who he was; a weapon. Being sick had crippled him, but it hadn't stopped the horrors in his head, or the pureness of his paranoia. He had all these new boundaries now, and a very different existence most suddenly, all of which could have just triggered a mental breakdown.

He took another ginger step forwards, being careful not to make any quick movements that would suggest antagonism.

"Zim? It's okay. It's me. Just me."

He felt that same nervous guilt when he'd pulled Zim from the autodoc.

As Dib walked towards him slowly, there was an abrupt, engulfing ice in his heart. It was as if he had entered a cold spot that was getting colder the closer he moved towards him.

Could it be coming from the Irken?

They had touched spiritually – Zim's mind connecting with his during one brief occasion. Had it left a mark? Had it somehow opened a door, a door neither of them had prophesied?

"Zim?"

The Irken blinked suddenly at the call, as if Dib had physically put a hand on him. Closer now, the investigator could see strange indents on the Irken's hands. They curved slightly, and were pockmarked. It took him a second to realize that they were teeth marks.

How to approach this?

The ragged sleeve hung from a bony arm, the other sleeve still rumpled up. Zim held himself completely rigid a moment, his eyes open and honest, but there was nothing to be distinguished within them, nothing to explain anything definite.

"Zim, hey?"

At any moment now, the Irken would flip, and shout and yell. Most of it would probably be derogatory, but at least it would get Dib that much closer to understanding what was wrong. But there was no shouting and no yelling. He sat like a spurned child who had hurt the parents he loved. Blood drooled down his lips and chin, the excess dripping into the jacket he clutched to his chest.

Closer now, barely three feet away, he saw that Zim's topsy-turvy clothing was soggy with sweat. His arms were the worst off, as if he had used them as scratching posts to relieve stress or boredom. Dark jade was smeared down them as if he had been rubbing against fresh green paint.

"We came back." Dib implored gently. "We weren't going to leave you."

The former Elite's bony little chest kept drawing in and out hurriedly. When he coughed, he flinched from it, as if he had been exhaustively coughing and coughing for hours until he was in agony.

The knife... Maybe it was a poor substitute for his PAK legs? To him it might seem as ordinary as a proxy tool, but to Dib it looked kind of horrific, dangling from his claws like that.

"Zim. Take a breath." He could smell the stink of sweat coming off him; combined with the stench of panic. He was a step away. The beeping remained strangely methodical, like it demanded attention, but without the urgency. There was nothing else that could beep down here.

Like making contact with a cobra, and fearing that sudden bite of poisonous fangs, Dib put an arm around him, and steered him close to his chest. Zim limply complied with barely any more reaction than that.

He was sipping air too fast, trying to drench out the demand his starving lungs were begging for; lungs that were inflamed inside, and the steady backlog of blood his heart was sending back wasn't making it any easier.

Dib reached down, and gently slipped his fingers around the hand that was holding the knife. With hardly any encouragement, Zim gave it up and Dib flung the knife as far as he could across the floor.

Hugging his wet, sweaty body, he massaged his hand and looked into Zim's eyes, eyes that were glazed with indiscernible pain. "Fudge, I'm here. Look at me."

This wasn't like him. Any chance to vocalize his jeopardy, even over slightest tribulations, and boy did he brag about it in spades. Just the other day he had ranted at Clara for spilling one drop of diet soda on the tablecloth. Then he had made sure to tell Dib how TERRIBLY he stacked the dishwasher.

He gripped him a tad firmer in the hopes of jarring some life and some sense into his alien brain, "You've got to calm down."

He waited. Sweat was dripping off the little Irken; intermingling with the green dripping down his nasals. When he spat out a few more coughs each one exacted a toll.

Dib noticed that his mouth was bloody from where he'd bitten his tongue.

The door to the basement's entrance suddenly opened, and Zim clutched his head in the same instant. When the scream tore out of him, Dib started, flinching. The tortured sound was the same creatural scream he had made when the wire had snared him.

Clara was at the top of the basement stairs.

"Zim! I'm here! It's okay!" Gently his arms went round him, all the way this time. "Shush, little guy. Shush."

He had not realized their absence would turn Zim inside out like this. He was a creatural thing once again, wild and frightened. Naked of his technology: of protection and surety.

Green was coming off his hands, his arms, anywhere he touched him. "Zim, are you going to walk up the steps with me?"

This simple request spurred the Irken to rake his slender claws into his left arm.

Dib grabbed his hand, knowing that shouting at him was not the answer. Apply force, and Zim replied with more force that was thusly driven by toxic anxiety.

This chronic display of self-harm furthered the lunacy Zim was showing. In his head, worries were probably rotating at speed, a mind-carousel flashing to each terror as if it was a segment in the rotation. Deep within his honeycomb of metal and tech, there had been no one to see these exhibits he portrayed when his anger, nervous breakdowns or paranoia surpassed new levels. Gir had counterbalanced this perhaps, his presence alone stopping this imbalance in the Irken's emotional equilibrium. But really, Dib was just clutching at straws. It could be because his deepest securities had gone, and, when he'd been left alone, his mind had spilled open from the fear of having no true refuge.

At least, when he had Gir, he had someone to talk to, someone to turn to.

Alone? No one whatsoever but his smiling shadow and the schizophrenic taunts from his own head.

"I'm going to get you out of here, Fudge, but first I'm going to lift you." He rubbed his shoulder all the while, his other hand tenderly gripping his cold claws. His breathing was always croaky. The lids of his left eye had started to slant down in an uncontrolled way. The blood running down his chin only helped to exemplify his alarming psychosis.

There was no recognition that he could see, so Dib proceeded anyway by gently placing his hands around his chest, and lifting him up into his arms. Zim's state of mind did not soften. His eyes were like dark stormy ovals of glass; chest sipping down panicking breaths. Body as rigid as stone. He made a sharp whimper, claws tucking the jacket to his chest in the fear that it would fall.

If he kept this up, he would overload his weakening heart. Dib could already feel the heavy fluctuations cutting into its rhythm.

"It's okay now, it's fine. All's well, Zim. I promise."

In leaving him, they had robbed him of what little control he had.

When he put a supportive arm under his rear, he felt the wetness. Zim's broken antenna drooped partway over the human's shoulder; his breathing a squeaky wheeze. Calmly, the investigator's eyes travelled over the blue tube, and the PAK, finding nothing out of place. Even so, the slow and torpid beeping continued.

In his mind, he tried to imagine - tried to picture – what Zim might have gone through. He hoped it wasn't some sort of increasing dementia.

Was it the _ring-a-ding_ of the doorbell that had started this panic attack? The sound of the wailing rains he couldn't escape from? The looming, empty rooms that offered stagnant unease?

Had the bedroom started to creep up behind him when he had turned to his computer console?

Hefting him up a little higher in his arms so that Zim's bloodied chin rested on his shoulder, he stood up, the blue of the tube flashing with an irregular flow. It was a bit tricky with the bad ankle, but he turned from the damp corner, and started making his way across the carpet. The spare jacket trailed from Zim's arms like a giant cape.

The PAK legs he would come back for later.

Clara kept the basement door open. "What the hell has he done to himself?"

"Just get the emergency ventilator, the carry-hold one."

"The knife?"

"Down there. He gave it up without a fuss."

"Why did he have it?"

 _To defend himself from the ghosts in his own head._ "Clara! The ventilator!"

She gave him a look, an angry look reserved for those who weren't listening. Then she backed off, and headed down the hallway. Dib moved into the lounge, and slowly sat down on the sofa. Zim's claws convulsively clutched at the jacket, his eyes shiny things. He was shivering.

The professor had forewarned them of an event like this happening (no matter how unlikely), and had advised them to give Zim a shot, or a narcotic in his drink to kill the stress. But, due to Zim's cagey nature, and inherent awareness, such an option would antagonise him all the more. His paranoid nature may even lead him to think that they were trying to poison him.

It was no use telling him the news from Dr. Sandy, not yet, not when the creature's mind was in shattered pieces.

For all of Zim's external and internal strengths, his mind could be as delicate as a glass castle in the right circumstances.

One thing thrown started a crack; a crack that spread. Each loss, each stress to his livelihood and sanity would become an additional crack that webbed this integrity. He was on the precipice of crashing down with it; throwing him into his own tortured abyss.

"You were right about Clara. See? You're not nearly so evil after all!" He choked on the words.

The little alien had sweated through every fibre of his clothing, but he was absolutely freezing. Dib cupped his hand against his PAK, making sure he was cuddled up tight against his chest. Zim grew aware of the human's heartbeats, and this seemed to steady him a little, pulling him from the dark in his head.

Clara entered the room carrying the little handheld oxygen canister, in her other hand the looping see-through tubes and oval mask. She set the oxygen tank down by the sofa. When she offered up the plastic mask, Zim flinched from it, but as soon as it was on him, he seemed to realize what it was for. After turning the valve and adjusting the setting, he was breathing in the oxygen with soft gratitude in his eyes. Unbeknownst to the Irken, he was breathing in a soporific agent that had been added to the emergency oxygen supply.

He watched him squeeze his eyes shut, but sometimes when he sucked in breath, he winced.

Dib was desperate to clean up and treat his wounds, aware that they were still bleeding, but he daren't attempt anything until they brought his panic under control.

After just a few short minutes, Zim sagged dramatically against Dib's chest, and his eyes lost that frightened glaze. But he would not give up the jacket. He clutched it to his bony chest as if it was his one and only lifeline.

Clara whispered. "We need to contact your father right now!"

"He'll come out of it," he whispered back, "he will. Just give him time."

"What's that noise? That beeping noise?"

"Give me a minute to figure things out, okay?"

She was watching the way the old Elite clutched at the jacket, and a certain knowing darkened her eyes. "Dib. He's got some serious psychological problems."

"He's just got scared, okay?"

She wouldn't let it go. "And he is dangerously insecure!"

"Not now, Clara! And not here!" Dib shook his head as he tried to think things through, his frayed emotions blurring round and round like the leaves in a hurricane.

Christ, they'd only been gone for a few hours! A few measly hours!

If this elicited such a severe response, then how was he to go back to work?

And how could they explain to Zim that being left alone for a few hours was perfectly okay?

"If he felt even a thread of pain in his chest," Clara continued, her voice going back to a calmer whisper, "that would have set him off too."

Dib was tortured. He hugged the Irken dearly.

It dampened the happy news of her pregnancy, and it also painted a picture of how dangerous having a baby might be when there was a mentally imbalanced Irken in the household.

Could they ever trust Zim with a newborn?

Zim might not live to see the baby. Part of accepting him was accepting the reality of waking one day to find that he'd died in the night. What was left of his life was short. And they'd accepted it, hoping to fulfil his last months with love.

It was heartbreaking. Dib had rather hoped that he and Zim would take to the stars in Tak's ship like the old days, one more time, and go somewhere, maybe.

Clara rose to grab a blanket. It hurt to watch him shiver. When she put it around his shoulders, he tensed, watery eyes opening in a panic.

"Easy, little guy, easy." Dib coaxed, rubbing his side up and down until he could feel Zim start to unwind again.

"Dib. We've got to call your father. Zim's too weak for this kind of stress."

"He'll kill me, Clara. He spent so much time and money to save him, and what do I do? I break my dad's one golden rule. He'll think I'm the worst son this side of the universe."

"He'll understand! Just tell him the truth!"

"Is it enough to justify what we've done to Zim?" He asked her weakly.

She went quiet, but only for a moment. "We'll tell him everything. Zim's more important."

"But...!"

"Despite Zim's mental inhibitions, he's my child now too don't forget. We gave him this life. It's our duty therefore to do everything we can for him."

Today had taught her a lot more about their alien.

Drowsily cuddled against Dib's chest, with his eyes closed; Zim's breathing was still distressingly fast. His nasal slits had stopped bleeding, but that strange beeping noise, without an obvious or definite source, went on. Clara turned the dial up on the respirator and Dib heard the responding hiss of air as the tank opened up its supply.

"He might be in pain. We'll play it safe and give him his heart medication." She said as she stroked the back of his skull. "Once he's safely dosed up, we'll treat his wounds and tuck him into bed."

Dib nodded, not really listening. Pushing the curtains of indifference aside, he tried to imagine where Zim's unhinged mind had taken him.

He was a very smart little creature, if terribly misguided; and followed the totalitarianism of FEAR. Add in unmitigated loneliness, and pain, and the purest belief that his new family was never coming back, and Zim basically gave himself a mental breakdown.

Zim may have been convinced they'd had an accident – out on the road perhaps - and couldn't come back. And the Irken was trapped in the house. He couldn't leave. He had nothing to hide his alien nature. The postman at the door was an imagined FBI agent, or a cop, and Zim had spilled into outright terror, knowing there was nowhere he could really hide without a base to make it so.

It was full-scale vulnerability in all its horror.

A rabbit that couldn't get underground.

Proficient with the hypodermic needle, Clara filled it up from the applicable vial labelled: _procainamide_ and loaded it to the 30ml mark. Then she added an additional dosage of adenosine. She rolled up his tattered sleeve and hunted for a vein. When in he was in shock, or chilled, the blood withdrew from Zim's skin, making this job harder. When she found a tiny dark thread of vein she slipped the needle in, and imparted the vital angina-killing medicine into his bloodstream that would go directly to his heart. His foot jerked, bottom eyelids twitching from the sting. "Easy, honey. This will stop any pain, okay?"

For the smallest instant, long enough for it to be visible, a look swept across Zim's face that was equal parts fear and relief.

Dib watched the medicine slowly slip into Zim's system millimetre by millimetre. It took long, careful seconds so as not to bruise or burst the tiny vein.

Once emptied, Clara cautiously withdrew the needle, and held pressure on the sight of the puncture wound a moment. "Dib, I think we should put him on a drip. I've done it before, once on him, and once on a dog. It's better that way. The adenosine medicine will stay in his system longer."

"We'll see. We'll give the little guy a few hours of good, quiet rest. If he doesn't improve, we'll try it."

"Dib, if he gets _any_ worse..."

"I know, I know. I just don't want him waking up and panicking over it."

The discomfort in his chest must have been present. After five minutes or so there was no resistance in him whatsoever once the medicine took effect. They used this opportunity to carry him to the bathroom, where, between them, they carefully and slowly worked at treating his surface injuries by cutting off the sleeves with fabric scissors. They were mostly superficial cuts. Nicks and scratches from his own claws, and not the knife. There was a lot of dried blood that had started to clot. But when they cleaned away the blood, the wounds were shallower than they'd realized. It was a relief. They cleaned up his face, and when asked to open his mouth, Zim did without too much resistance. There was a great gash in his tongue where his teeth had sliced the flesh open. It still bled. Dib hoped his body would take care of it if they left it alone, but drinking and eating anything for a few days would be painful.

Unrolling the gauze from the little emergency kit, she treated both arms using pre-boiled water with a drop of iodine, hoping the cuts would heal quickly.

One of them needed to go back and clean up the basement later, and retrieve the PAK legs.

Zim floated between bouts of exhaustion, and was only vaguely aware of them. The whisking fluids in his blue tube were flowing more steadily, as if, during those moments where Zim's heart had started to strain, so too had the mechanisms inside the PAK. The jacket finally fell from his lethal grip as tiredness snaked through him.

"Zim, raise your arms for me."

He complied, which surprised Dib, even though his attempts were feeble. He got his arms to the breadth of his shoulders. But it was enough. Clara pulled the ripped hoodie up and over his arms and head, and did the same with the sweaty dark velvet shirt beneath. Too chilled and shaky to be bathed, Clara dried his sweat with a towel. However brief he was without clothing, the horror of his gauntness - of distended ribs and pelvic bones – disturbed them no end. Clara slipped on a new padded pyjama top. It cradled those old bones of his in velvety luxury, and hampered those shuddery shivers. During this changing of clothes, they kept him on oxygen as long and as often as they could. Dib would hold the breathing mask ready, and when his hoodie and shirt had been switched with fresh clothing, he put it back on him again, deeply satisfied when he heard Zim gratefully choke down the oxygen.

He said it first before she could. "He's sleeping with us tonight. Maybe for the rest of the week. If he starts fidgeting, and complaining, I'll know he'll be feeling better."

"We should have taken him with us." She said, looking disheartened. "I should have made a new disguise for him weeks ago."

Dib pinched his eyes shut a moment, arms clenching the Irken tightly. Funny. He hadn't enjoyed being woken up at 3 in the morning by Zim screaming: "DIB ARE THE DOORS LOCKED?" But now he would trade his kingdom for the Irken to be that wistful, annoying, and disruptive creature again. It was hard to believe that only this morning the little overzealous Irken been 'improving' the washing machine.

"No. I let him down." He said, swallowing hard. "I let my natural distrust of him rule my thoughts. I thought I had changed. Thought I'd grown out of it. When he sensed that there was something different about you Clara, I thought he was just trying to trick us."

With her free hand, she reached over and took Dib's hand in hers, gripping it tightly. "You got scared. I understand. You didn't know what to believe."

"He was clutching his arm before we left. And I shouted at him."

"Dib... it's..."

"He's just... he's just not the same Zim I remember, Clara."

-x-

 _It'll do his old heart some good._ Dib thought as he scooted the little guy down to rest in the middle of the master bed. The pillows he made sure were elevated a little to give his lungs some alleviation, and kept his feet lifted with a soft, folded towel. Mirroring the difficulties of his heart; the blue fluids stalled some, then flowed smoother.

 _It's just the shock. He'll be better in the morning. Just gotta keep him warm, keep him calm, and give his heart rest._

The big night-time oxygen canister he had hauled and put behind the headboard, which was easy, as the headboard consisted of vertical rails so he could reach to turn on or off the valves.

He felt so empty and tired after having his emotions brutally flung to and fro all day.

Zim was breathing in clean medicated oxygen from the tube in his mask. Acoustic wheezes were present in the zenith of every inhale, but he was breathing properly. The ashen colour in his cheeks had improved and he wasn't soaked in his own sweat.

The beeping remained strangely persistent. Whenever he looked over the PAK, there was never anything wrong, and nothing amiss. There were no lights blinking. No part of it getting too hot. No smoke coming out of it.

"You are such an unstable little alien, Zim." He whispered softly, caressing the creature's cheek. "You know I'd never leave you. I made that promise, didn't I?"

Zim's mind was a labyrinth; some passages so deep and dark, nothing would ever be fully discerned.

He would not choke up. Not now.

He changed into comfortable nightwear that was thick in case Zim might claw out in his dreams, or grip him tight. He had never slept alongside Zim before. Not in the bed with him, both covered up. He was respectful, and usually slept in a chair, arms and head resting on the bed's edge. The Irken was still partly a wild animal, and might not take kindly to all this company.

Clara was getting into bed on Zim's other side.

"How long will his medicine work for?" He asked her.

"Six hours, give or take. If he shows any signs of pain, we're bringing him back to the lab, Dib. No matter the hour. His health can't plummet anymore than it has."

"What if he gets scared, waking up to find us with him?"

"He won't. I think he'll be relieved."

Maybe she was right, judging by what he suspected already, thanks to Zim's crazed and unhinged behaviour. If only they had had a camera that showed them inside the house; revealing what he had had done as the hours passed.

Dib slipped in under the sheets, carefully manoeuvring himself beside the frail Irken. He'd keep an eye on the breathing tubes, and make sure they wouldn't get tangled.

Shifting an arm beneath the little creature, he drew Zim towards him, which got a reaction. In sleep, he angrily whined.

"Shush. We're still here." He said, cuddling him. "It's all right." He felt him shiver; it was more from distress than cold. Their body heat would soon warm him to the roof.

He looked so tiny between them.

"You know," Dib whispered to her, "we might start a bad habit."

"What do you mean?" She asked, one arm raised to switch the bedside light off.

"You do realize that if he likes sleeping with us, we'll never be able to get rid of him."

"That's fine with me." Her smile was more genuine despite the strain in her eyes.

In the dark, time crept forwards.

He wondered if Clara had fallen asleep, and decided that she probably hadn't. Was probably, like him, listening out for the sounds of distress: of any alterations in the mystifying beeps that came every twenty seconds without fail.

The ghostly moonlight crept along the wall. The rain pitter-pattered softly, and then gradually stopped as the wind mourned. The grandfather clock below in the hall declared the time, but Dib was too caught up in his thoughts to count them. Had to be somewhere between three and four in the morning. The birds hadn't started singing yet. If he did doze, finding dissatisfying rest in spurts, his dreams were twisted, broken things.

He was in Tak's old ship. Earth floated below, creams of cloud scurrying over the blue of its oceans. He was a boy of eleven again, fitful with pride. But then the ship's internal cabin went dark. There was a nasty CLUNK in the engine room behind his command chair. Things, words – symbols sprawled drunkenly across the screens. His cabin was now a throbbing, angry red. He started crying. The tears running cold down his cheeks.

Foolishly he started to flick knobs and buttons, hoping against hope something good would kick in, that the ship would steer a course for home. But Earth only spun further and further. He was in freefall.

Dib gasped, eyes wide. The room was dark. He lay in bed, not in the cabin of a spiralling ship. Zim was wheezing fitfully against him, cuddled up in his arms.

He relaxed, though it took a long time for his heart to slow.

He had been afraid of that ship ever since. Zim cutting its innards to pieces hadn't exacted the misgivings he might otherwise have felt. In fact, he was rather glad Zim had done him that favour, though he had never confessed to it.

He tried to find sleep again, but it wouldn't come.

The breathing apparatus was keeping the old Irken's dyspnoeal episodes in check, as was the medicinal relief. As such, he wasn't spluttering so much with coughs - and his rest was relatively peaceful. But there were times when either his bad dreams or his fretting bubbled to the surface too, and he'd squeak or whimper out. It was a frail sound, rarely heard. Not something an old toughie like Zim would make. Dib would feel those claws whisk into his clothing, and pull tight as he sought comfort. Instead of pulling away, he held Zim tighter, reminding him that he was still there. Then those claws would slacken – never all the way – but enough to keep Dib's skin from being scratched. Sometimes though, his left would clutch weakly at his chest. Dib wasn't sure if Zim was just reminiscing back to the day of his heart attack or if he was remembering the times leading up to it, because, moments later the old Irken would loosen out again, and slip into a deeper sleep.

His PAK ports were glowing. The fluids in his bypass tube were moving round. He'd often lift the bedcovers just to check, just to make sure everything was as he had last seen it. Bu the beeping remained a mystery.

He tried not to think of the sorry little creature they had found, sitting in the corner of the basement. Tried not to think of the ways Zim must have screamed for them until he made himself hoarse, and hoped that the Irken they'd see in the morning was still the Zim they knew.

Thoroughly warmed by their combined body heat, the old invader had long stopped shivering. The jacket he had held in a death-grip was resting on top of the blankets.

He could feel his heart, pitter-pattering softly, like the rain. It had taken more than one miracle to keep that tiny weak organ beating in Zim's paper-thin chest.

The clock chime he counted.

Five in the morning. He would have gone through his painkillers by now, and he didn't seem to be in discomfort.

However, just as the clock chimed six, Zim struggled upright in the dark of morning, hooded fuchsia eyes fetching glazed looks about him as if he had roused out of a bad dream only to find himself somewhere just as frightening. Dib sat upright slowly.

"C-Computer..." He heard the Irken squeak through the padding of the breathing mask, "Computer..."

"Hey." He swept an arm around his trembling bones. Zim was dulled; mind muzzy with fretful half-awake thoughts. "Go back to sleep, Fudgekins. You're safe."

He heard him take a swallow. Eyes droopily looking. "Com...computer..."

"Shush now. It's okay Zim. I'm here."

He gave him as long as he needed to look around. Then, almost gratefully, he slouched down, and Dib took him back into his arms and eased the blanket back over them. For many moments, Zim's breathing shuddered in and out of his skeletal chest, but his eyes were closed again, and there was no new underlining tension.

A hand cupped round his ribcage, he felt him take each breath. They were steady. Swelling up and then down at an easy tempo. With this rhythm unchanging, with his weak heart pitter-pattering softly again, Dib plummeted to sleep.

Dawn unfurled her tentative brow, and the horizon was ablaze in gold.

When it was close to seven, Zim stiffly sat up in the early morning glow, his right antenna curving forwards, his breaths whistling in and out of a shaky chest. He was looking around pensively from hooded and tired eyes: trying to gravitate his orientation perhaps. Dib, feeling every movement he made, watched him out of the corner of his eye for a moment and then gently sat up beside him.

"Hey Zim." He said sleepily. "How are you feeling?" He waited, wondering how cogent and lucid he'd be.

When the Irken looked up at him there was a dark shelf of lethargy beneath each eye, and deeper wrinkles that weren't there before. "Had a b-bad dream..." He wheezed timorously. He stiffly looked round again, as if Dib's sudden question had unfavourably distracted him from his surveillance of the room. Clara, hearing them speak, started to rouse. Zim seemed not at all surprised to discover himself sleeping amongst them. In fact he was sitting up slouched, his expression incredibly soporific. When Clara raised herself on an elbow, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, he passed her a little greeting. "Morning filthy h-human. I co-commend you for n-not snoring unlike the elephant beside me."

"Morning butterball." She wrapped her arms around his littleness to give him a motherly hug. It brought some warmth to his deathly pale cheeks. "You had us so worried last night."

"W-Worried?" He squeaked when they parted.

Dib was less inclined to chase up on the events of Zim's strange behaviour right now. The fraught panic and sheer dissonance of mind might have shrouded that part of the day in fog for him, giving him only chunks of pain and confusion as his only memory. He was just relieved that Zim seemed more mentally stable, and that was good. Very good. "Who's up for a big, hearty breakfast?" He thusly cut in, rubbing the old Irken's shoulder up and down, alarmed to feel those shivers still coming and going in his little frame.

"Oh definitely!" Clara smiled warmly, noting the reservation in her partner's question. "How about waffles, maple syrup and cream?"

Zim perked up a tiny bit by way of his right antenna.

"Let's take this off." Dib slipped the soft elastic band away, and pulled off the oxygen mask. "Then we'll get you all changed and ready for some food."

Clara left the bed, pulled a gown on over her cotton nightwear, and proceeded downstairs.

Dib slipped his socked feet into his dark blue slippers that he had left by the bed and opened his wardrobe to select some clothing. Zim watched, and then slowly started to move. Employing unusual amounts of caution, he slipped off the bed and approached Dib's side quietly. Dib goaded him to the bathroom, noticing the Irken's deeply tired disposition. He walked like a desert survivor blighted by sleepless nights and starvation. He was tempted to go in with him, in case the little guy collapsed, but, sticking to the usual routine, he closed the door after him and waited outside while Zim did his business. He was in there a little while, taking longer than he would normally, and after obsessively checking the time on his wristwatch, he tapped politely on the door.

"Zim? You okay in there? Need any help?"

There was a muffled mewl.

"Make yourself decent. I'm coming in." He gave Zim ten long seconds before opening the door.

Zim was at the towel rack, drying his hands. His pyjama pants were around his ankles. When Dib had opened the door, he looked forlornly up at him as a broken prisoner looked at his jailer. He hadn't crumpled into a heap, thank god, and wasn't regressing back into that perpetuated panic but he looked very sick.

"Here. Let me." He bent down and pulled the pants back up.

It was as if someone had a remote that controlled the speed of Zim's movements. And they had turned the dial right down to slow motion.

Dib remained crouched while Zim finished up drying his hands. Carefully, Dib pulled up the sleeve of his left arm, and saw intact bandages and gauze. He let the sleeve drop back down. "Zim. Fudge? Tell me how you feel. Any discomfort, anywhere at all?"

Zim's fuchsia eyes; gloomy and vacant, stared up at him a moment as if the question was unintelligible. His breathing sounded worrying laboured and wheezy, and his chest staggered sometimes at the strain of it. His legs would tremble every now and then, as if the weight of his own birdlike bones were too heavy for him to manage.

Dib waited, getting more upset the longer it took.

"Just...a b-bit woozy." He muttered at last, looking at the floor as he said it.

Dib smiled pensively for him. He should have known he would get no more than that. "You all done in here?"

A shy dip of the head: eyes looking demurely back up at him as if seeking his approval.

"Let's make a trip into your room and get you changed. Say, Zim, do you hear that beeping? Where is it coming from?"

Zim's look didn't get any more intense or coherent at the question. "B-beeping?" He asked dubiously.

"Yeah. It's coming from your PAK."

"Must have k-knocked it." He said, sounding very dismissive about it, even confused. His mind seemed so jarred from last night that he didn't seem able to concentrate on anything.

"Knocked it?"

The little Irken made a painful shrug.

-x-

The morning sunshine was peeling through the purple curtains. Dib drew them back, and Zim's bedroom became a bright, golden room of spring cheer. Zim stood in this light, looking so ghostly in his pastiness. Shivering like a leaf, legs close together as if the world was closing in on him, he peered around, as nervous as a rabbit caught in the open.

Dib chose the clothes for him. A thick purple fleece, and with it a dark pink shirt and fleecy pants of grey with matching socks.

Zim reluctantly complied as Dib took off his old nightwear and slipped on this cuddly clothing. But even when he was layered up, he was still shivering as if he had a chunk of ice in his midsection.

Despite the insipid white in his cheeks and forehead, they gave off a dry heat.

At least there were no more signs of a nosebleed. After cleaning him up, no new discharge had reappeared.

To speed things up a little, Dib tucked him into his arms, again without hearing any protests, and carried him downstairs.

The breakfast was being laid out on the table. Clara looked over at them worriedly as they entered the kitchen.

Aware at his own scruffy appearance, he gave her a cheery, apologetic smile. He slid Zim into the chair with all his stacked cushions, and pushed him in. Zim was at once confronted with a plate of hot, steamy waffles and maple syrup.

Clara, taking a seat opposite him, noticed his unchanged subdued energies and the muted look in his eyes.

Like a robot with unoiled joints, and a rusty engine to match, Zim took up his knife and fork, and began to tackle the waffles by trying to cut them into smaller bite-sized portions. He was having difficulty, though he kept quiet about it. Dib patiently came to his rescue, and cut them up for him.

Clara kept throwing concerned looks his way.

"He's just a little sleepy this morning. He'll warm up." Dib said.

Zim's fork hit the floor, creating a clattering din. The Irken looked down at it miserably.

"No harm done! I'll get you a new one." He bent down, scooped it up, and returned from the drawer with a clean fork. He passed it to Zim, who nodded sedately with appreciation.

"Zim?" She asked him, "Are you okay, honey?"

He looked fleetingly at her in a wary manner. He had managed to slip a bit of waffle in his mouth, but his chewing looked difficult, and his swallowing did not seem much easier. "Goo-good waffle..." He said, as if he hadn't quite heard her, or was doing his usual deflecting. He reached for his little mug, a mug with honeyed milk. He drank this down, also with difficulty as if his throat was dry and sore. That sore and dented tongue of his was probably throbbing like crazy. Once he had managed a few good swallows, he set it back down, and took deep breaths as if this whole 'eating and drinking' thing was exhausting.

"Zim. I... I have some great news to tell you." Clara proposed.

Dib's eyes widened. She was going to tell him, _now?_

The fork hit the linoleum again. He blinked at her, the dark circlets around his eyes looking more prominent. "W-What n-news?"

Dutifully, Dib retrieved the fork, dipped it into the washing-up basin with the last one, and got out a clean number three from the drawer. This chore distracted him from rushing over and slapping a hand over her mouth. He didn't want Zim to know! Not now! He didn't know what kind of a reaction he'd get, AND he rather hoped they'd come to the decision together of when to reveal it. It annoyed him that she had chosen to go ahead without his opinion.

"About yesterday, when you felt that there was something _'off'_ with me? You were right. But I'm not sick."

She waited for it to sink in a moment.

"See. I was r-right!" Then he stopped. "Right about w-w-what, exactly?"

" I'm...I'm pregnant!" He stared ghoulishly at her for long seconds. "I'm going to have a baby!" She happily added in case he mightn't know what the word 'pregnant' meant.

He continued to stare, mouth hanging open, looking aghast as if she had confessed a diabolical plot against the Empire. "B-Baby? A human smelly sm-smeet thing?"

"Yes!"

He gulped so loudly that even Dib could hear. His right antenna reared all the way up into a perfectly straight line. "Are you hav-having it n-now?"

"No, no honey!"

"Then, wh-where is it?" He looked wildly about her and around her, suspecting that she or even Dib were hiding this 'baby' and that they were about to present it to him like it was part of some magic trick.

"Oh Zim!" She reached over and squeezed his bony hand. "It takes months! It's growing inside of me right now!"

"Uh, Clara!" Dib cut in, "no more information please! It isn't..."

Zim looked like he had just trodden into a wet puddle bare foot. He slipped his claws out from her hands. "How... how d-did it get there? Isn't it supposed to be in incubation?"

Dib ran his fingers heavily down his cheeks in dismay. He had to jump to the rescue. "Human babies work a little differently than...urm... Irken smeets, Zim." He said at once. He felt like he was always coming to the rescue whenever there was too much 'alien' in the conversation but he could not help but sigh in open anger. This wasn't how he'd planned it, but nope, Clara had to rush ahead like a bull and smack Zim over the head with these revelations.

He was looking suspiciously at them with a frozen wild stare as if Clara and Dib had consorted to the demon gods of the black abyss to magically produce this baby. The old Elite was clueless on how reproduction worked, even his own species reproduction, condemned as Irkens were to be manufactured tools, and nothing else. They were not allowed to find out about themselves. Not allowed to unlock their biological potentials.

"But, h-how can it see anything? Isn't it... suffocating in there? How did it... h-how did it get in? And h-how does it g-get out?" The old Irken rambled nervously.

"Don't... don't Irkens have babies?" Clara asked, confused that he knew so little about reproduction.

"Yes." Came his abrupt retort.

"Then isn't it the same?"

"No! Idiotic h-human! Irkens don't ha-have ooglie things that grow inside them! Th-they grow in tanks. Cryogenic tanks until they're ready to be deported to whatever task the PAK assigns them." This long sentence made his wheeze loudly persist. He touched his mouth at the sting of his hurting tongue.

Dib picked up the mug with the honeyed milk, and encouraged Zim to drink. He gave Clara a long, sad look.

 _He's gotta eat. And here you are, confusing him all the more. You could have waited just a little longer._

Zim only managed two feeble swallows. Then he was back to coughing and shaking.

Dib was rubbing his trembling shoulders.

He wasn't feeling well.

He was being brave about it, but Dib could see the discomfort on his face.

 _Please don't be sick Zim. Please don't sick it all up._

He got his breath back, but didn't touch anymore of his food. "When does this baby of yours... uh... appear?"

"Nine months, give or take. Let's not worry about that right now. Eat your waffles, honey."

"Is that when it needs to b-be activated? In n-nine m-months time? Why does it take so long?"

"Shhh." She leaned over and touched his forehead, realizing how cold he was. "Dib, can you go and get him a blanket? Something to wrap around his shoulders?"

He turned and left quickly.

Zim watched him leave, his hands now perched on the table.

"Zim," Clara began clearly in a voice that meant business "Keep eating please."

"But I am e-eating!" He admonished. She raised her eyebrows at him expectantly. "You sure are b-bossy." He took up his fork, and pushed another slither of waffle into his mouth, chewing hesitantly. His annoyance did not stay long. When he glanced at her anew, there was a shade of existential horror in his eyes. Maybe his mind couldn't compute with the fact that a biological being could create life so simply without the extended help or the instructions of a machine.

"We need to g-get it out of you." He was saying. "Mustn't harm you. It shouldn't be in there."

"Zim, it's a perfectly natural way of having children. It's okay. Trust me, it'll all be fine."

He kept staring at her, skin shiny with sweat. He was worried, devastated, as if she had gone and done something terrible that needed to be amended at once.

"Will the Dib be having one too?"

"No, only females can get pregnant."

"W-Why? What's so sps-ecpal about f-females?" His words were becoming more incoherent and disjointed.

Dib returned and snuggled the pink blanket around Zim's shivery shoulders and chest. "You've only managed about two mouthfuls. You gotta eat. Please, butterball. You need the energy."

"I'm... I'm f-full..."He squeaked.

The investigator gave Clara a frustrated, defeated look. They had worried him too much, destroying what nonexistent appetite he had.

"Would you like something else to eat?" He coaxed, knowing how sore his tongue must be. How in the world he had bitten it, he did not know.

Zim weakly shook his head, looking nauseated.

Dib looked bleakly at his plate. It was as full as when it had been first given to him. Using Zim's fork, he picked up a tiny morsel, and lifted it to the Irken's lips. "Open up. If this is what I have to do Zim..." He waited as the little Irken only trembled. "I don't want to have to put you on a drip again."

"I'll... I'll eat..." He swallowed, realizing that Dib was serious. He took the fork from him, coaxed by the human's growing temper, and started to eat.


	6. Old Habits

**Saving Zim: Epilogue by Dib07**

 _ **Summary:**_

 _When you had it all. When old age forces you to change._

 _When life isn't what you'd imagined._

 _When you aren't prepared to be so powerless._

 _When a soldier's undetermined future remains his greatest fear._

 _ **Disclaimer:**_

 _I do not own the IZ characters. However this story and this idea is mine._

 _Cover art beautifully made by_ _Truekrisstianity!_ _All credit goes to her,_ _please do not use without his permission, thank you :)_

 _ **Warnings:**_

 _Character death. Character angst. Blood. Swearing. Gary._

* * *

 **Gaz**

Strawberry frosting! I should have known! So glad you're still here, reading this! Heh, I've had a few name changes in the past but I always came back to Dib07 lol.

 **Anon**

Zim's separation anxiety is INSANE! I chuckled at what you said! Poor Irken never catches a break, bless him!

 **Angelica**

Hello Angelica! I could not stop smiling and gushing at your feedback! That's what I aim for: transporting you, and you being in the moment WITH the characters. I'm there, when I write, and the fact that I can transfer this imagination back to you is incredible! Hahaha! I know what you mean about the 'big boy' words! I'm glad I've done well! AND when you said you like seeing how small the scroll bar is, I cry with joy! I swear I can hear my readers groan when I update BIG fudging chapters lol. I trim them, and trim them and they're still monstrous! Gosh, be brave! Post! I KNOW too well how you feel though. I get the jitters every time I update, though you wouldn't think so. I always think my own work is terrible. I fret and stress nonstop. THANK YOU dear Angelica for your delightful, encouraging and heartfelt review. It makes me want to share this story all the more BECAUSE it moves you, and captures your imagination as it does mine. I am so shy a person though, and I'm over the moon I can give any inspiration! Thank you, so much!

* * *

 **CHAPTER 6: Old Habits**

 _'Memory_

 _Turn your face to the moonlight_

 _Let your memory lead you_

 _Open up, enter in_

 _If you find there_

 _The meaning of what happiness is_

 _Then a new life will begin_

 _Memory_

 _All alone in the moonlight_

 _I can smile at the old days_

 _I was beautiful then_

 _I remember_

 _A time I knew what happiness was_

 _Let the memory live again'_

 _Memory - Cats_

 _-x-_

He watched the spring winds shift and move and turn the leaves into a green crescendo of beauty. The flowers murmured as one, letting the motions dip their heads in a fevered dance. Petals broke off and drifted and lifted. Pink petals interspersed in the grass. For a moment he saw Gir drifting and twisting in play amongst the petals, lifting up his metallic arms to catch them. He could even hear him laughing, and he smiled. Then he blinked, and the image turned back into memory.

The trees seemed to whisper.

His autumn red fuchsia eyes lowered.

Moments later he lifted them again.

The sun rose, gold and brilliant in the sky.

His remaining antenna lifted as though to salute it. Early summer leaves masqueraded past him, flushed with rose and dusky pearl petals as his heart ached. Golden light shimmered, hot and burgundy in his eyes as he stood to meet the sun. He opened out a hand, feeling the breeze brush against it. A pink petal caught in a claw, and he clutched it and brought it close to his chest.

Then he opened his claws, and the petal flew back out to join the flurry of pink. He watched its departure, looking as stern and as solemn as he always had. Tears formed, bright as gold, and fell to the cold shadow below.

Feeling the wind tug at his plaid shirt, he took a step, and then another step.

Flashes of Gir came and went with the petals. He stretched out his claws, hoping to catch him, but there was no one to catch.

Still, the petals whirled, and he was caught in the centre.

Achingly, he could feel his PAK legs unfurling even when it was just in his head.

For a moment he was weightless in the flurry of cherry blossom. Gir stood there, smiling so sweetly. He wanted nothing. Asked for nothing. Tears filled his eyes again, and he grabbed for him, but Gir departed, changing into so many petals.

Someone reached out behind him; fingers finding his shoulder.

He knew how easy it was to turn away.

Every night, the autodoc felt close. And every time the sun rose, the night was over.

He turned to the one who had shown him more than he could have ever hoped to learn. And smiled.

-x-

"They're... they're retreating."

The officer's words hung in the air like a winter's chill.

Indeed they were retreating, but Tallest Red reined back his relief. The Keri battleships were regrouping after the bloody skirmish. The main host had used the black planet Baleron as their stanchion. The Irken Fleet could split into two or even three if they had the numbers, and take the Keri in the rear, front and sides but they did not have the numbers and splitting what remained was a risk too great to enforce. The Keri had fought ruthlessly, countering the strategies of their enemy with surprising intelligence and speed. Their ships were well shielded, and well handled. Reports were coming back that they were just brigands and measly space pirates but Tallest Red doubted those claims.

The Armada had trodden into their solar system as their hunger to devour the cosmos drew them ever forwards in a prodigious march, their reach exceeding that of their infamous Irken greed. The Keri, a mostly unknown species of creature, had risen against them in open rebellion to save their home worlds and their nation from conquest and slavery.

These kinds of campaigns never lasted. The Armada usually upset a swarm of hornets wherever they went as races of creatures desperately tried to stop or at least slow the brutal fist of Irken dominance. But the Keri were prepared when both factions met. They must have heard over transceivers or from their allies that the Irkens were in their playground, and they had doubled their fighting ships. The Tallest had complacently expected a short and sweet insurgence, as most uprisings usually were – for little else could oppose the might of the Empire. Yet the Keri were as stubborn and as ruthless as they, and both forces had shrivelled back to regroup after a costly engagement.

Tallest Red didn't like how things were going. The Control Brains expected a report. Instead he'd sent a message for reinforcements.

A retreat at this point would have seemed the better option, but Irkens did not retreat.

 _Pursue them? Or let them regroup?_

He looked at the main view screen, at Baleron. The planet was a shocking indomitable black, but it burned inside, hotter than the alien sun on their portside.

"Fix our shielding." Red grunted. He'd use this moment to lick their collective wounds. Pursuing the enemy in careless abandon might be woeful suicide.

"I've got it! I've got it!" Purple's hysterics made the officers flinch at their consoles, many turning their heads. He came into the command room in a hurry, waving a slip of plastic laminate around. "That singular bane to the Empire is finished! Gone! Obsolete!"

As far as Red was concerned, he was _looking_ at the singular bane of his existence, much less the Empire's. "Don't tell me it's that 'Zim' you keep hollering on about! We have _bigger_ problems right now!"

"He's dead! Look! LOOK!" He waved the sheet about as if he wanted everyone to come and look and verify this confirmation.

Red came up and snatched the laminate sheet off him, but this did not dampen Purple's fervour. He spun about on the spot, looking smug. You'd hardly think they'd been in an indecisive battle only a moment before.

Red looked sparingly at the diagnostic report. Zim's PAK identification code; unique to every issued Irken, headlined the summary.

His eyes speedily took stock of the numbers and dates, learning from the numbers that Zim had shown electronic and biological readings after the failure of the autodoc launch. That was disturbing in of itself. But this subsistence did not last long after. Termination of all life support followed, and then the PAK went offline. The report finished with a conclusive; 'PAK signal no longer transmitting.'

Zim. Their loose cannon, insurrectionist and wildling was finally dead.

He could not help but feel slightly disappointed at this, and was surprised that he felt this way at all. He hated that little upstart. Maybe it was because rules had never applied to him when everyone else was bound by scrupulous duty that one could not afford to muck up. Red and Purple had to deliver on every exam, and perform their responsibilities well to win the esteem and favour of the Control Brains, while their valued height won that of their peers and followers. They didn't know they'd grow quite so tall, and so they had never stinted on their training, whereas Zim struggled through every hoop. He barely scrapped through the Academy, his only redeeming scores being that of battle simulations where his personal limitations didn't apply to virtual reality so much. Regardless of his stunted size, he had been able to pilot any ship, any weapon: his skills strangely unmatched. But he'd alienated himself from the very beginning by being ruthless to his own ilk. Strange he was: a soldier who devoted himself to the cause, but never seemed to be a part of it.

Red supposed there was always an element of excitement to Zim's unpredictability, and his rashness. Always he had behaved like a youngling straight out of training, whereas Red and Purple, who were activated at around the same time, had prodigiously gone through life and its many wars gaining nothing but more duties and obligation; harnessed they were by the responsibilities the Empire laid upon them. They could not meander or stray from their missions, whereas Zim had always held a lee of autonomy in his claws despite the strings that held him too.

Doubtless they'd tried to kill him by sending him to a poisoned planet, and when that didn't work they'd hurled his name up for execution and that so-called Existence Evaluation trial had happened. Zim had sidestepped that too. Purple's laconic plan of slapping a nanochip on his robot had finally tilted Zim's formidable invincibility decades later (this being sheer luck), and finally old age and PAK disrepair had finished him off.

Red fed the laminated sheet through a shredder as if it could erase this distasteful information. There was no point getting sappy over a screwy defective. He just knew they'd never be another like him.

It was possible, he supposed, that certain parts of a PAK could be removed to produce this 'offline' status. but the likelihood of that happening without professional help was zero.

"Why were you so worried about that degenerate anyway?" He had to ask Purple.

"You weren't worried?"

"No. Should I be?"

Purple opened his claws in exasperation. "He'd come to meddle, wouldn't he!" He wasn't quick to forget what Zim had done to them over the years. It didn't matter how many light years away he was, he could still indirectly reach them, and hurt them. The planet Mars had destroyed eight of their patrolling ships, narrowly missing the Armada. He'd tried to smack them into Earth too by remotely controlling their ship. Even to this day Red wasn't sure how he'd discovered the means to hack into their controls like that. And after the way they'd treated old Zim recently, Red wasn't _that_ surprised to learn of Purple's anxieties. To _know_ that he was dead did soothe his mind too, he supposed. No repercussions and all that.

-x-

The deep crease sitting jagged in his brow foretold his anger before he'd even said one word.

"Hi dad."

"Son." He nodded. Then he stamped on in, pausing to brush off a leaf that had landed on his white square of shoulder.

Dib closed the door, feeling the weight of his father's accusations.

The professor was clamping on words he would otherwise have shouted. He took off his ridiculous white outdoor coat and hung it on a peg to reveal his white lab coat underneath. In his hand, he held his trusty briefcase in a commanding grip.

"I can explain!" He felt like a voiceless child again. Wasn't that always how his arguments started? With a: 'I can explain?' His father gave him that somnolent look that spelled loud and clear his internal exasperation. "Zim... uh... well, he started getting fretful over Clara. Like he could sense something. Like a weird alien sense-thing, I don't know, okay? So I panicked, naturally, and took her to the doctor."

"And what's the verdict?" He asked.

He stopped his tirade as if he'd just run into a chain link fence. _Clara I'm so sorry._

"I'm pregnant." It was Clara who confessed it. She walked into the hallway looking pale.

"My oh my!" The professor's anger seemed to break apart, like a wave breaking upon a rock face. He bent into a stoop of a bow, took her hand and kissed it, showing the briefest glimpse of his face before it was buried away again beneath the prow of his collar. Then, as if defying the walls of his own decorum, he brought them both into an endearing embrace. "My son! My crazy son is going to be a crazy father! Will wonders never cease?"

Well, the news was out. There was always the fear at the back of his heart that his father might disapprove of getting a girl pregnant, especially when they had yet to be wedded to one another. The professor might even find the very idea of babies as wasteful, for he had never discussed such matters or what his own personal thoughts were.

"Of all the wonders in the world, and the splendours of science, never has anything been more precious than childbirth, and the beginnings of new life." He said. Clara's cheeks had reddened into a blush, and she was looking terrifically shy.

"And how far along are you, my dear?" He asked her.

"Four weeks. The doctor says I'm due in November."

"And what does old Zim think of this?" He asked, looking down at each of them in turn.

"He's been so out of it, I think it went over his head." Dib explained. "We only told him this morning."

"I see." He noticed how scrupulously tidy the hallway was, more so than the professor had ever seen it. In fact, he noticed that the kitchen too possessed that same sparkling finish as if a handmaid had whizzed through it with a magic wand; except of course the huge pile of rubble that used to serve as a washing machine.

"Your home is ever so shipshape and tidy." He could not help but ask.

"That's Zim!" Clara replied happily. "He cleans and tidies wherever he can reach! He uses the stepladder now that he's a little stronger, and he uses a little lightweight dustdevil to hoover the floors with. Everything he uses is so small, it's stupidly adorable."

"My oh my." He said again, seemingly a little overwhelmed with the deluge of surprises. "So he's not causing too much chaos then?"

Dib and Clara exchanged looks. Dib decided to tell the story; "We have had some... incidents. He blew up the washing machine, as you can see, but he's actually been rather... good at _not_ blowing everything up."

"I see." He confessed. "But you must understand that a little chaos is good for him."

"But it endangers us." Dib elaborated. "It endangers this house! And now we have a baby on the way."

"I understand, I do. Just make sure he has a... creative outlet. It's good for his emotional stability. Penning him up all day will only do more harm. I know that you're both concerned. Having a child changes a lot of things."

"It does." Dib agreed.

"And where is he?"

"We had him snoozing in the lounge, but he kept fretfully waking so I carried him back to his bedroom."

"We found him in the basement." Clara cut in. "He scratched his arms, and his face was messy because he'd had a nosebleed."

"A nosebleed you say?"

"Yeah. And the silly thing bit his tongue pretty badly."

The professor let out an aggravated sigh.

-x-

As he stood in a sunspot of the room he gave Zim a long look first and then stepped forwards, placing the briefcase down by the bed. Dib remained close to his father's side, feeling that grievous need to explain and runoff every apology in the book again.

He was pleased at the look and feel of the room, and how they'd set it up for him, but he was quick to see the slash marks marking one section of wallpaper.

"When he coughs, does he produce phlegm or blood?" He whispered.

"No."

"Good." The professor dipped his chin forwards as he gave some thought. "And have you been taking his blood pressure as I instructed? And listening to his heart and lungs with the stethoscope I gave you?"

"No." Dib felt the disapproval mounting. "We've been giving him his shots on the dot every twelve hours and we've been feeding him up as much as his mood and spooch can handle, but he doesn't like us using the stethoscope on him. That's a kind of surrender he can't handle."

"I give you just a few jobs, son, and you fail me yet again."

"It's not that easy!"

"You've got to be a little firmer with him. You are accountable."

 _We're still getting used to each other, dad!_ He wanted to say, but didn't. The professor's patience was getting thinner, like brittle ice on a spring day.

He approached the little creature, all wrapped to the nines. Pressed up under his chin and snuggled fiercely in bandaged arms was the Gir doll Clara had hand stitched. The felt on its head was smeared in dry green blotches from where his nosebleed had stained it.

He had not intended to come over so soon, hoping things would go well for this space bug for a few months thanks to the strong palliative care he'd given the damaged Irken, an Irken he'd lifted up from death. Science was an amazing preserver of life, even going so far as to extend an alien's spark. And he was such a dear little thing full of energy, resilience and pride.

"Zim? Little one? Wake up now." He gently felt for his little shoulder beneath the mantle of blankets, and squeezed. It was disheartening to see the inadequacy of Zim's reactions. He'd responded much better and quicker in the lab towards his homecoming, possessing a grain of that soldier etiquette. "Zim?" He repeated worriedly. "It's Membrane, come to see you."

The little Irken shivered, his mind being tugged towards the surface, but his senses were sluggish and dulled.

The professor gave his son a quick parting glance. "Has he been showing _any_ pain?"

"Y-Yeah. Mostly when he coughs."

The bottoms of the soldier's eyes began to open, showing that beautiful deep labyrinth of crimson and fuchsia. His cramped right antenna went to lift in a lazy, half-hearted inch, the blankets rolling down his shoulders, and he stared, transfixed in fright at those who had appeared at his bedside without due invitation. His antenna was free to stand tall: and the older man was flummoxed to see that the tip of it had turned grey.

"W-Who?" He forced the word out. When Membrane went to open his mouth, he snapped: "O-Out! Get o-out!"

"Dear me, Zim!" He chuckled in that warm, conciliatory tone. "Is that really how you welcome your old friend?"

Zim made efforts to sit up. Then he stiffly and drunkenly looked from one to the other. "Who asked you?" He rubbed sleep out of his left eye with a clumsy left hand that was still bruised from where he'd clamped down on it with his teeth last night. His droopy pyjama sleeve fell down to the crook of his elbow, revealing the laden strips of gauze.

He could still speak fairly well if Dib had spoke true about his tongue. "What is this beeping noise I can hear?" But when Membrane asked it, he looked to his son.

Dib gave him an unappreciative look. "When we found him huddled up in the basement, we could hear this beeping. That's all I know!"

"And you left it to go on for this long?"

"Nothing seemed to be out of place! I checked him over!"

"Excuse you!" Zim croaked, breaking into their debate. "But thisss is MY room. F-Fuck off and go outside or something!" He was still struggling to see them, and kept rubbing at his eyes.

The professor softly chuckled. "Your vulgar charm is as brazen as I remember. Yet, as much as I appreciate your brash wit, I've come to check up on you, as I mentioned I might and..."

The Irken suddenly blinked; fear eclipsing the light in his eyes, "You're here to take me b-back! Aren't you?"

"No, no little one that's not it at all, I assure you!" He said quickly.

Dib watched Zim work at an inner conflict a moment as his eyes flashed to and fro. Understanding him gave Dib so many answers he had never seen before. Being at war with the Irken, and hating him, had made him blind. And as much as Zim would have opposed the notion, Dib could now read him as plainly as an open book.

"I can't help it!" Zim wailed at last, "Leave me b-be!"

That confession hurt Dib like a spear through the chest.

"I won't do much," the professor kindly promised as Zim defensively wrapped his arms around his chest, "and you'll stay here, Zim, all safe and snug in your new home."

"I can't help it!" He said again, sounding angry and tearful like a spurned child who had accidently smashed a china plate.

 _This is all my fault._ Dib thought, and not for the first time. He'd shoved Zim into this situation.

His father was right, as he was about many things. He _was_ accountable.

To prove to the shaky, upset Irken that he did not intend to do anything nasty, the professor opened his briefcase and produced a cylinder-like torch and a mini tablet. "I'm just going to do a bit of data reading for now. Take a breath. It'll be all right."

Zim nodded the once, but he was on his guard, arms still curled tight around his chest as makeshift walls.

Feeling cold inside from the heaping regret, Dib plopped himself down by Zim's shivery littleness.

Using the tiny wire from the tablet, the professor connected it to an underside port in the PAK's mantle after shifting away some of the blanket. Dib, peering over Zim's shoulder, watched the efficiency reading on the tablet. It was analyzing the data, like a computer accessing the health of its core integrity.

"This PAK of yours should be holding steady at the efficiency of thirty-four percent. Firstly I must make sure everything is how it should be. You might not be physically adjusting to the changes I made as I had hoped, or something else is awry."

There was quiet as the professor poured over the surfacing results reflected back in the tablet. Dib did not like to watch the screen as the numbers were herded into a definite calculation. But just as he looked elsewhere, his father made an amused sound. "Ah, good! The PAK readings are stable, and haven't changed."

"What does that mean?" Dib asked, pulling and twisting on his own hands.

"That his PAK and its wondrous mechanisms are working as well as it can, and that there is nothing massively peculiar to note! Now, cover your eyes, both of you!" He adjusted something on the little torch, and shone its bright blue light on the PAK. A wrinkling of Zim's lips betrayed his nervousness, but close his eyes he did. The torchlight, concentrating into a narrow beam, worked like an X-ray device, and revealed the interconnecting devices beneath the PAK's tough mantle. The professor made especially sure that the bypass tube was secure in all sectors, and was transporting the fluids around correctly – he also made sure there were no deviations in the nodules and in the finer capillary of wires and tubes.

He switched the torch off, and peeled away more blanket to access Zim's bandaged arm to do a blood pressure reading. He wrapped the Velcro cuff around it and gave the cuff time to inflate as he read the gauge's results.

Dib knew that the time had come for him to explain everything. In a low, sombre voice, he told his father about the missing knife, and the scratches they'd found up his arms, and the mindless way he had behaved down in the basement.

"There were scratch marks on the carpet, and a stain where he must have..."

"Anything else?" His father snapped.

"Y-Yes. There was vomit on the floor."

Zim gave them all wary looks from tired eyes; eyes that heralded fear and guilt. His little bony chest heaved down breath.

"Little one." The professor asked him grimly. "Do tell me how you feel."

"Fine." He rasped stubbornly.

"Do you remember much of last night?" He took off the Velcro and put the pressure gauge to one side. His blood pressure was low.

"N-No. Should I?"

"I am going to briefly readjust your PAK. There is a loose connection, hence the prodigious beeping."

"Loose connection?" Dib blinked, hardly believing what he'd just heard. How could a connection just become loose?

Zim seemed to be in his own whirlpool of confusion, beleaguered with tiredness as he was.

"Now, this may hurt, but it'll be over shortly." The professor put his gloved fingers around the upper and lower mantle, and gave a jerk from the bottom up. Zim bleated out a shriek, and in the next second the professor had snapped it home again, interlocking its metal cords smoothly with the ports in his spine. The resultant shock in his neurological system must have been excruciating, for Zim sat ramrod straight, his right antenna as perpendicular as a flagpole. When the dynamite blow of shock was over, the Irken relaxed.

The beeping was no more.

Dib waited for an explanation, but the professor was already on the next issue, his words always soft and calming. "Now, open your mouth for me."

Even though he looked favourably spooked, he cranked his mouth open just a little. The professor shone a torch light in, noticing the bloodied and damaged tongue.

He clicked his torch off. "You've had a seizure." He deducted.

The alien looked ever more puzzled. "Wh-what's a 'sea-zure?'"

He hesitated before coming to a decision, patting him on the head instead. "It's...it's nothing, little one. Let's tuck you up so you can get warm."

He squeaked when the professor gently laid him down, keeping his head inclined, with a pillow under his legs.

"What has he eaten lately? And what medication have you given him?" He asked his son.

"He could only manage a few bites of waffle this morning, but we've given him all his medicine, and a dose of adenosine."

The professor turned to get the stethoscope out of his bag. "And how's that little heart doing, hmm?"He asked. Without waiting for a testy reply he set the circular disk of the instrument on his chest beneath his soft top. The Irken growled and growled some more. "You've had a tough time, haven't you? Putting up with my hooligan of a son." He said.

Dib sighed sadly, knowing how besotted his father was with Zim. He dropped his work for the Irken, coming as soon as he was able. It was mostly because any delay in professional treatment would mean death for such a frail little creature whose health fell like a landslide.

"Have you been feeling dizzy at all? Breathless?"

"C-can't help it..." He snapped again, defensive. The professor didn't press him any further.

He put the stethoscope away.

He was unhappy with these results, considering how well and stable Zim was when he'd left the lab a week before. He knew how delicate and variable his condition was.

After a few more tests, he let Zim relax.

"All done, Zim! You're very brave." He patted him on the shoulder. "I want you to rest now. You've had a hard time of it. If you'd honour me with one request, I'd like you to stay in bed for the rest of the day. And tomorrow, even if you're feeling better, I'd like it very much if you take it easy."

-x-

The professor was looking sternly at the carpet in the basement. The tufts of loose fibre suggested that the Irken's claws had ripped some of it up. Dib stood with him, feeling worn and seasonably punished. He knew his father was charmed and happy at the news of Clara's pregnancy, even if it was a little too early to celebrate, but there was a looming tide of anger behind the veil. It was in the way his father clenched his gloved hands, and in the way he addressed him sharply with those goggled eyes a moment before he remembered himself.

"And you found him here?"

"Yes, that's right."

The PAK legs, stiffly aligned together, lay where Zim had last left them. He had been searching for them. Possibly because he needed an element of his past to comfort his shaky disposition – or to reapply his weaponry – such was the stresses playing on his mind but who really knew what Zim had meant to do with them.

"This is where he had the seizure." The professor said curtly, nodding down at the wet spot. Dib's heart clenched. "He must have come out of it, badly frightened."

"Dad...I..."

"Son! I understand you had circumstances of your own. Nobody had the foresight." It almost sounded like an accusation. And it probably was. "In any event that you leave Zim alone, contact me; drop him off at my lab."

"We weren't going to leave him long!"

"That doesn't matter! It takes minutes for a seizure to occur! And the convulsion, however brief it was, dislodged the connection with his PAK! I do not begrudge the time, the effort, the money I poured into his care, but I do begrudge you ruining it all in under three hours!"

"Dad... I'm really... _really_ sorry..."

He flat-out ignored his apology. "Have you tried talking to him about what happened down here? What he remembers?"

"I don't think he does remember. He didn't seem particularly mad with me."

He rubbed at the top of his head, and peered around the rest of the basement. He found the kitchen knife behind a storage box. He picked it up, and looked it over. "All that coughing has drained him, and made his chest raw with pain. Give him liquid foods for today, and tomorrow give him whatever he can manage. Tell me. Before all this, how had he been?"

"Good." He sadly smiled in reverence at the recent memories he and Clara had started to build with Zim. "He's been busy. Fixing up a huge new security system at both doors. Adding in a gateway in the hallway."

"I saw the work he's laid down."

"And you saw the remains of the washing machine, right? He spent all yesterday morning trying to improve it for Clara. He did it for her. You've seen how he keeps everything meticulously tidy. And he always keeps tabs on us. Always wants to know where we are, like an overly anxious cat or something. Nighttimes have been hard on him though. He wakes up, feeling dysfunctional I guess. And that's when I think losing his base, and losing Gir haunts him the most; when we're not around to give him any comfort. I don't know what to do for him. Sometimes I'll find him outside in the garden, the last place I'd expect." He gave pause. Added; "I think, mentally, he's still devastated and maybe that's why, when we left him alone, he fell to pieces. If he can't control something, it brings everything back to the surface, everything he's been trying to keep down. I'm his anchor. And when I'm not around, he falls."

"I see."

"All this freedom is hurting him."

The professor finally took on a more relaxed posture. "Son. Your little friend made a nigh-impossible recovery. You know he did. I could only lift him so far. He had to do the rest! And he came through for you! Let him discover this new life at his own pace. It may hurt yet for a little while, but it's only been a week, my boy! I think he's been doing mighty fine despite the odds! Zim is a very clever little character. He needs a strong purpose, a new motive. That's all." He said warmly. "It may take him some time to find it. In the meantime, be patient with him, and be considerate of his fragile state of mind."

Dib tried to swallow past the knot of grief in his throat that had also spread to grow in his chest and stomach, his eyes glued to the dark spot on the carpet where Zim had had the seizure.

-x-

He stared at the pages as Clara flicked through them. It was a catalogue of all things baby: cribs, mobiles, baby books, prams oh god hundreds of prams, mother care stuff, lotions and ointments and food oh my. It went on and on. How much could one baby need?

He was happy but he was mostly giddy and horrified and guilty. Could he be an upstanding father? Someone a child could look up to? Clara had been shaky since coming back from the doctor, but a sort of excitement seemed to overcome her shortly the next day, after they'd tried to share the news to a rather ignorant and naive little Irken.

What would Gaz say to all this?

She might be happy for him. She might even have a child of her own by now. Who knows what was going on with her, and her life. She'd mostly stayed on the margins, piloting her own destiny behind closed doors. There was _one_ thing she wouldn't approve of, though.

Dib drew a tight breath, swallowing. Clara noticed. She looked at him, and her warm glowing cheeks paled. "Are you okay honey?"

"Yeah, I'm good."

He wasn't supposed to feel guilty. He was supposed to be _happy_. All first time dads were over the goddamn moon, right?

"You don't look good." She insisted in that insistent voice.

"That's because I have you to worry about."

"Nonsense! I'll be fine!"

"He's rubbing off on you." He told her, which only extracted a laugh out of her. When she turned back to the catalogue (a catalogue that was fatter than the Bible) he added, "Time's flown. It still feels like only yesterday we went out on our first date. And when I proposed."

Clara nudged him hard in the arm. "So, young man. When's the big day?"

"Big day?" He didn't understand. What was she getting at?

Clara rolled her eyes skyward. "The wedding!"

Dib swallowed again. "W-Wedding! Of course! I knew that was what you meant!"

His heart plummeted. It fell through the floor, to the abyss. Old burns he hadn't felt bother him until now throbbed in his fingers and waist. Marriage! Oh god! Commitment, oh god!

He loved her, truly fucking loved her. But sometimes he still felt like a boy. Being a father, being a husband evoked great duty, and great responsibilities, all of which would tie down. This was mostly psychological, he knew. Sharing his life with her would not change, but nothing would remain the same either.

He was so used to keeping his own counsel, doing his own thing, and living how he wanted. He was sure he could still keep to old habits, you know, like investigating haunting buildings and asylums and whatnot, but wow, babies and marriage oh my.

She was watching him. Dib smiled a great big dumb smile and clutched her hand in his and felt the metal of her engagement ring.

"Don't look so worried." She said. She could read him like a book, so could Zim. Were his expressions, however plain, that easy to read? And he once thought that he had a good poker face. "What's worrying you? The baby? The wedding?"

"No, no! I'm just...happy!" _Liar._ He thought bitterly. _You big fat liar._

He was being hurled towards a future he wasn't quite ready for, but that in itself was a selfish thought too. He was thirty three, and would be thirty four this year. He couldn't remain a boy forever. Zim had grown up. Now it was his turn.

 _Be brave._ He told himself. _What are you so afraid of?_

"So," he said, soldiering on, keeping up what he hoped was a happy face, "when shall we set the date? Should I propose again? I should propose again!"

"You've done that already!" She teased, hitting him again. "Zim's right, you are clueless!"

He teased her by planting a kiss on her throat; she was always so ticklish on her neck. It made her squirm and giggle like a school girl. Zim thought he was eating her the first time he saw them do this.

-x-

He left Clara to pour over the many pretty pictures and steep prices in the catalogue while he stood and listened in the foyer. Zim had been coughing and coughing for hours. Now it was very quiet. He was half worried Zim would remain clingy, and come down the stairs like a child lonely of his parents.

Several times he had crept up the stairs to check on him, to reassuringly find him curled up under his thick quilt, sound asleep. It had taken them more than a little while to calm him. He had not wanted to rest. He had wanted only to stay with them in the fear that they might leave him again. But seeing him lying there, all bundled up and frail made Dib miss their old lives all the more.

With sentimentally ringing hard in his heart, Dib went down into the basement and gathered up the PAK legs. Had it been a poor decision to keep them in the house? What should he do with them? Bury them? Burn them - along with the remains of a metal Gir?

It had hurt something terrible to see that Zim had dug them out of a sealed box - as if he had plans of reattaching them somehow. They had obviously made him feel safe, and even now he sought them out when his insecurities beckoned the aegis that had been second nature.

He dropped the prosthetics into the same box Zim had taken them from, and resealed it with tape. Then he got a bucket from the kitchen, filled it with soapy water, grabbed a sponge and started cleaning up the stains in the carpet.

He wished he had a crystal ball so that he could take a little peek into the future to see how things would work out; if Zim could make it until Christmas for example, or if Clara was going to be safe from having a miscarriage, and if the baby would turn out healthy.

After he'd scrubbed and scrubbed, trying to rid the carpet of the stain as if he could so easily do the same for the mental depiction of the seizure Zim had, he ditched the bucket's dirty water into the sink in the kitchen. Then, because he was feeling sort of brave and sort of stupid, he opened the backdoor and walked almost brazenly across the freshly cut lawn to the garage. It stood like something dark and cold: not taking in the afternoon light so that shadows pooled thick around it. He brought out his cigarette packet and even went so far as to tuck a cigarette between his lips and flick open the lighter before he realized. It was a bad habit he was nurturing. He had to stop it now, had to quit. Zim was too sick for second-hand smoke, and Clara was with child.

He stuffed the packet into his back pocket, but never went so far as to drop it in the waste bin.

Zim was not with him. He sorely needed an upstart invader to give him that boost of courage.

 _It's just a ship._ He reassured himself. _Just a broken ship._

He wanted to look at it suddenly, because it was a part of his past: a past he was feeling more distant from as if he had dreamt it all up. Memories were all he had left. That and old habits.

He hit the old green button to the side of the sliding door, and for a moment of guilty relief he hoped the power was out: that the cables that served the generator had rotted and it wouldn't open, but after a heartbeat open it did.

Dust blew out, and a cold stagnant darkness peered from within. The ship: Tak's ship, was bundled up in thick dusty tarp. It helped hide the sharp points and edges, making it less like a ship and more like anyone's thrown out old furniture. And this was no accident. He'd hidden it from memory as much as from view.

It was stupid holding the blame on an object, on mere material, but ever since that misfortunate flight he had been frightened of it; frightened of its Irken nature he seemed never able to tame.

Even though he kept it, was the last to fly in it, he had never felt any closer to owning it. Tak had never shown up to retrieve it, thank the gods. Even so, it seemed to resist him despite everything.

He had wanted Zim to take it apart, and make use of its Irken tech, but the little Elite had no energy, and Dib was worried that he might never have the energy.

 _It would be a shame_ , he thought, _to take this ship and turn it into reusable bits and pieces. Zim may take offence. Or he might not._

 _I don't want to go up there again. I don't want to fly._

Queasily, and with heartbreak, he looked up at the blue ocean of sky.

He had come to believe that the ship was cursed, but that was just a boy's superstition, he was a man now, and he knew that ships were just ships, and that it was the foolish pilots that made mistakes, not the equipment.

 _Zim can show you how._

He smiled to himself. "No he wouldn't."

 _And why not?_

He put his hands in his pockets. It was the only way to keep his fingers from stretching out to grab that cigarette pack.

 _You fool. You're gonna be a dad! And all you can think about it is the past! Get your head out of these memories! Before they consume you!_

But a deeper drive spurred him on, foolish or brave, and he peeled back a bit of old dirty tarp, some of which was marred with musty pigeon poop. Despite the dirty mummified wraps, it was almost pristine within. Zim may not see it that way: might see dirt and possible rust when it would look clean to him.

As if he was petting a lion he nervously touched the screen of its cockpit visor.

As a boy, the ship had been huge and unkind and indifferent. He remembered the way the controls had blared as red as blood, and the way the intercom had screamed at him in a foreign language that served to heighten his panic. It was smaller now, appearing less ugly and cruel than he'd remembered it, but still it lay hunched beneath the tarp like a sleepy animal that might get nasty when wide awake.

He got this sudden wild thought. What if he could contact Tak? Then his mind closed on the idea just as quickly. No. She was a dangerous Irken. He should be worrying more about wedding cakes, baby prams and cobbling together cribs, not contacting aliens that had a thirst for battle!

He stepped out from the cool shadow of the garage, and out of curiosity he looked up at Zim's bedroom window, hoping to see him looking out. But no one was there.

Falling back to bad habits, Dib escaped to the back of the garden, feeling angry and upset without knowing its cause. He had every reason to be thrilled! Every reason to be happy! They had their first baby scan to book! Wedding preparations to make!

He wanted Zim to be a part of it, and his life, every step of the way. He also that he had to be realistic.

Under the soothing canopy of elm and oak, he sat on a stone by the pond. Midges licked its oily surface, and something dark moved from below. He jabbed the cigarette into his lips, and lit it.

 _You can't control everything, Dib. You can't, so don't try._

His burns hurt, especially the ones running along his fingers. The old lacerations remained sunburnt pink.

He'd love to see what Zim would do with a baby. Wouldn't that paint a funny picture? He was sure he wouldn't hurt the tiny infant, but he couldn't rule that possibility out either.

The smoke hazed upwards in a swirling curl. He watched it fade at the edges before he blew out another eddy of smoke.

He needed to live without needing an Irken by his side.

But he didn't see how.

He wrapped an arm around one knee as he peered into the surface of the pond.

What if his mother had somehow sent the Irken to him? To keep her son on his feet? To help him fight? To show him to be brave? To live? To laugh and to cry and to hope? Zim had been as much a friend to him as an enemy. Everything he had ever done, he had done through him, for him, and against him.

He'd overcome his hatred.

Fighting instead to save him.

And then he did the most stupid thing of all. He'd left the alien all alone in a house he was still trying to get to grips with. He should have known he would react in such an adverse way. The signs were all there if he hadn't been blind to see them. Zim had become a mute after surgery, only coming to life when he or Clara was there with him. He had needed their company: needed their comfort during that terrifying time in his life. They had altered Zim's already delicate psychosis. And that was after he'd already been through trauma after trauma.

When the Irken was recovering in his father's lab, he'd gone back to the house to screw in those little folding stepladders, only for Clara to ring him up an hour later, saying that Zim had fallen into a depression and barely interacted with anyone or anything; because Dib had left, however brief. As soon as he came back, barely remembering to lock the car as he barrelled through the doors, Zim had brightened up, the same way he had when he'd come wobbling down the corridor looking only for Dib after detaching himself from the fatal serum button.

He closed his amber eyes and listened to the drone of the bees behind him, and the plop of things moving in the water.

It was not long before he'd ditched the half smoked cigarette and was making his way back. Again he looked to the window and again he saw no one there.

Clara was still flicking through the massive catalogue. "What are you going to do with those old weapons of his?" She asked of him without looking up. "I don't like having them around, not when they're still upsetting him." _I also can't have the house ransacked every time he gets a little shook up;_ she also came close to saying.

"I'll...I'll return them to my dad." He said, having not the heart to destroy them.

"And the washing machine?"

"I'll order a new one, and take the old one to the scrap yard."

"Good." She said, turning another page.

He trudged into the hallway, went down the steps of the basement, picked up the box and brought it back up. Carefully he stowed it into the back of his old Toyota and shut the trunk. The whole business of it felt dirty. A part of Zim was in that box, in his car, about to be taken away. His father might dissect one, and study it once he had the permission from his son. They might give humanity a boost in certain fields of study, or science, who knew, so long as Zim's connection to them remained a secret.

But today he would not deliver them. God help him if Zim woke and called for him when he was some twenty miles down the road.

Dib climbed up the stairs and opened the door a little wider. Zim had moved over to rest on his left side, his claws clutching the doll anxiously as he snoozed. The swirly purple and pink aurora of his nightlight cascaded dreamily over the pale jade of his skin, the white noise of it barely heard over the whistle of his squeaky snoring. As he watched, a brief snarl twisted the Irken's lips, and then he relaxed again. He was dreaming.

Dib took his favoured place at his bedside.

The seizure had worn him out. The panic and reckless abandon had not been kind to him either.

 _"Let him rest."_ The professor had advised. The anticonvulsants had soothed away the reoccurring shivers for the most part, and would hopefully dispel anything stronger.

Tonight he'd be back in their master bed again, sleeping safely coddled between them even if he would bitch and whine about it.

If he did not have another fit today, he should be in the clear, but for now they would safeguard him, watch him close, just to be sure.

-x-

Trudging through sodden brown leaves of autumn, hands stuffed in his coat's oversized pockets, he ranted and raved bitterly; hardly keeping his eyes on the sidewalk. A gust of wind pushed him from behind, causing him to huddle his arms about his chest from the icy cold. CURSED WEATHER! CURSED PLANET! The weather forecast flipped like a coin, not even the humans could get it right, and they'd been on this world since they were grubs.

Home! Home at last!

Its malefic green walls gave off a comforting glow day or night, and to him it could not have made a better sight. He strutted up the pathway, past his glowering gnomes, and flew a hand up to reach the doorknob. He paused, glaring in wild surprise when the door was not a purple door but a pastel blue door. He could hear the tinkling laughter of Gir within, so what the hell. He opened it and fell into a cage. He was tiny, but this cage was claustrophobically small. The ceiling was so low he was forced to his knees, and he barely had room to turn. He looked between the thick iron bars, claws rigidly curling round them. Before him was the kitchen: Dib and Clara's kitchen with high walls and ceiling, not to mention the human-reachable cabinets and utilities that were still otherworldly tall.

And in this kitchen a giant thing wearing a diaper was lumbering around on two pudgy legs, and it was squealing and gurgling like Gir, but not like Gir. It was a giant human baby, and as it went it ransacked every cupboard and spilled out every drawer in its rabid search for food. What it found, be it forks, cutlery or snacks, it crammed into its big frog-like mouth. Sugary wet mess covered its double chin and dripped down its front, and it left a trail of muck wherever it went.

Zim could hardly believe what he was seeing. He shook at the bars, bars that were welded like concrete into the iron of the cage.

The giant baby lumbered heavily to the next cabinet, cramming more and more of what it could find into its bottomless stomach.

The Gir doll lay just outside his cage. Zim rammed his shoulder against the bars to reach out and grab it, but the baby monster grabbed it first, lifting the doll by its leg.

"No! Nooo! Stop it, stop it at ONCE you monstrous thing!"

But there was nothing he could do to stop it. The baby held the doll above its gaping mouth, and in it went: swallowed whole.

Then the professor strode in, all tall and aglow in his pristine white lab coat. Raised high in one hand he held a drill. Its steel awl spun to a white sheen; the noise a horrible buzzing drone. In his other hand he held a reel of duct tape. "Not to worry!" Professor Membrane was saying smugly, "Another patch up will make amends!"

He opened the cage, and reached in to grab him. Zim blundered out, quick as a cat, and was dashing in a panic through the pouring rain. A chain-link fence reared up to meet his path, so he wildly veered left only to nearly fall into another fence. A man dressed in black was coming after him. When he went to deploy his PAK legs bits of bloodied metal wire came out of his ports instead, some of it tangled in wet knots.

 _Fly._

 _Got to fly._

He was flying, he supposed. He hung in a black void: the lambent stars blinking coldly at him from their remote abysses.

Far above, two ships were colliding, one a heavy crimson, the other black and gelded in red. In zero gravity, fire became water, and it ran like scarlet glue along the sides of the conjoined ships as they spiralled together: locked in a deadly waltz. Fragments twisted loose: scattering around the ships like asteroids. A black host of some unknown enemy lurched in the distance where a monstrous dark sphere of a planet gloated like a nefarious eye.

There was a voice, muffled, but loud and persistent. He opened his eyes to his command console, and found himself guiding his Voot through the rocky debris of an asteroid field at too fast a speed. Dib was in the command chair beside him, and it was he who was shouting. "It's all about control, isn't it? How long will it be, before you finally get it through your thickhead that it'll defeat you?"

"I KNOW what I'm doing, Dib stink! You never could understand even though your head gets larger by the day!"

A big spinning meteor flew under them. Smaller fragments punched against the shielding plates on the ship's hull. This made dull echoes resonate throughout the interior. Gir was by his command chair, but running down his sides were stitches. Even his mouth was just a load of stitching. His antenna was floppy too, as if it was made of fabric and not metal.

"Let it go!" Dib was saying over the thumps and thuds of more asteroid collisions. "Why can't you be happy? I gave you everything!"

"You took everything away from me! Everything!"

"Not everything!"

The black ship with its red gelding trim was looming towards them, its stern lean and sharp. It floated there, like a coffin with trimmed wings of ebony.

Dib would not shut up. "You're better than them! Turn around! Your place is Earth! There you can build again! You're a protector now, not a destroyer!"

"I AM a destroyer Dib! All I know is how to destroy!"

"You're wrong!"

The Voot's interior was suddenly limed in black bars, bars of a cage. When he looked back at Dib, Dib was someone else, someone wearing a fedora, and he had grey flecked hair. His smile was dark and promising. In his hands he held a key. But he could not look any longer, could not afford to lose focus. The ship before them came as surely as death, opening its black and glass lid. It was no ship. It was the autodoc, come to take him back.

He opened his eyes. Surely he'd awoken? But he blinked in the darkness and felt only walls tight and snug against his arms and PAK. It took him a harrowing second to realize that he was in a coffin - the confines of the autodoc. Screaming, he slashed and kicked at the lid in all his fury, and even when he'd broken free of the dream, throwing himself forward to gasp and scream, it took him another moment to realize that he was out. That he was shrouded in blankets, not walls.

Relieved, and gladdened beyond measure, he slumped back down against his pillow before dizziness could slay his vision. Though air came to him in quick, painful cycles all of which caused him to throw up coughs, he refused to take up the help of the breathing mask that sat, hooked by his bedpost within reach.

It took too long for his damaged heart to slow down. It shuddered along like something about to fall apart.

Zim looked around; disappointed to find himself alone. He was starting to grow fond of his room, because it was _his_ and all that, but ah he really was starting to grow soft with age. He'd had no bad dreams when he'd slept, snuggled between his new family, and he was all but fed up of having bad dreams. They brought back things he didn't have, and gave him memories he'd rather do without. And the nightmares were getting worse. Every dream was a cage in a different form.

He looked up at his spray of colourful plastic stars that cloaked his bedroom ceiling. Was this home a cage too? Or was he only _thinking_ it was?

He opened up his hand that he had been clenching in his sleep, and saw the nicks and cuts his claws had left behind. When he put his claws on the bedspread, he found the doll. It had been lying beside him.

Work. Work and its practical nature. That was everything he had ever needed, and thought about. Dreams were just strange fancies that even his computer had been unable to define.

The curtains had been drawn on one side of the window to keep the sun off him, but as the sun had gradually moved across the sky, so too had the shadows and the light. Golden shafts of gold beamed across the room, and in these beams were particles of swirling dust that glistened and turned like a million stars in a galaxy.

As his tired eyes took stock with some lag to his mental algorithm, he wondered if he'd one day get used to waking up to a place filled with the natural cycles of daytime or nighttime, or if he would half expect to find himself in the fabricated purple catacombs of his underground kingdom.

He could still smell the lingering odour of the professor. He smelt of _clean_ , of latex and rubber and all things sterile, with something menacingly repugnant under it all: like the alien smells one can pick on when visiting the dentist's. He came swooping in, all tall and portentous, and that old fear would clutch the Irken again as if they'd hardly met. Then the scientist would give him what his body apparently needed, and he'd feel _so_ good.

He hated the fact that he needed the professor to keep him going.

Oh, and there was one other thing.

 _The pig smellies are having a baby._

 _A baby._

 _What even is that?_

 _And how many of them will pop out of Clara?_

The walls around him had grown a little taller and had moved in a little closer until he felt pinned in the centre.

He was ruler of this house. He hadn't given them permission to increase their numbers, and do strange things behind his back in secret. It wasn't allowed.

To have them talk of babies and families and things new made him feel a hundred and ninety years old, which was still a hell of a lot better than how he'd felt before he'd been brought to the professor, practically offline and well, dead.

He thumped his fist on the patchwork quilt in a weak sort of tantrum.

Clara had left him a tall glass of chocolate milk but his tongue hurt too much. He knew that if abstained from food and fluids for much longer like this, they'd hook him to a drip, and likely bind his arms to keep from ripping the I.V line out.

He looked to the window and at the retreating sunshine, his right antenna picking out the sickly singsong of the birds outside. On his nightstand was a purple vase, and sprouting from it was a thick wad of flowers. He liked to look at them, and marvel at their beauty before they would undoubtedly wilt. He especially liked the roses. They weren't defenceless like most flowers. He still remembered how one had pricked him when he'd picked it in the professor's garden.

 _Dib. Where is that bothersome fool?_

He could not rest up all day. He needed to see where his humans were, what they were up to, and if they were getting into any trouble.

He sat up, ignoring his aches, and reached for a little black remote that he had stowed away in his nightstand drawer. He hit the button and his computer screen lit up with high intensity security feed. Even from the bed he could see who was where. Clara was browsing through a huge book in the kitchen. Dib was outside in the garden, smoking one of those smelly sticks. Just seeing him, and knowing that he was close by steered away the anxiety.

-x-

He paused at the door's threshold, the Gir doll slumping to the floor by his leg. Afternoon sunlight fell upon his snowy green face, and a dapple of leaf shadow moved across his form as he peered out, as nervous as a young cadet on a battlefield.

There was no wind, and the sun's heat bathed the garden. Birds flew in and out of a bird feeder. Butterflies of many colours, teal green and golden burgundy, or red and russet rose, flowed and floundered over the ocean of grass and over the elaborate and gaudy flower patches. He shied a little when a big fat bumble bee trundled past, but then it drifted away, and Zim once again raised his head into the welcoming sunshine. He could smell the tangy hay smell of freshly cut grass that always gave him nostalgic summer memories of his SKOOL days. There was the overpowering pungency of jasmine, mint, hawthorn and cherry blossom. Petals lay across the grass in pretty mosaics of pink.

The hand that was not holding onto Gir gripped his left arm in grim discordance. The blemishes under his eyes stood out like dark puddles. The wads of bandages stopped his claws from digging any further.

Dib was out here. Clara was taking a nap, so he chose to play the piano another time. Besides the big headed boy, there was work that needed doing, and he had to walk just a few more steps to get there.

Humans had bad eyesight in the dark, and so he was more sheltered from prying eyes when he came out here at night. The stars offered sad lonely company, but they lured him out all the same.

Dib was hanging up clothing on the washing line. Humans were still relying on the sun's heat to dry their uniforms, and it amused and befuddled him, even when he knew they had a dryer in the kitchen.

His right antenna hung forwards, his left hanging limp. It could feel the warmth pouring over him. He was never a huge lover of dirt and gardens and dirt. But after Clara had shown him that dirt could grow and nurture the unusual beauty of flowers and plants, he was starting to see the appeal.

He took a ginger steps forwards, then another, goading himself out the backdoor.

A bird flew above over him. Zim saw it in his uppermost periphery and flinched, taking a blind step back. He fell over the lintel of the door. He took a little bump, but his ego took a harsher beating.

The human paused in his clothes-hanging, and looked across at him from the garden.

 _Don't laugh! Don't you dare!_ He thought, wild with shame.

To pull together the tatters of his dignity, he marched outside, throwing his shoulders back, the Gir doll smiling as it was being dragged behind him.

He could see the garage with the pebbly walls: the one he walked past in the dark hours.

Like he was a security camera, Zim looked at the rest of the garden with a slow turn of his head. In the daylight it looked different and appeared rather chaotic for an Irken who had a taste for orderliness, neatness and regulation. The trees at the far back were wildly out of control, and their trunks were being strangled by an assortment of weeds. The grass, rich and green, was long and unruly in many improperly mowed places. A towering fence had been erected all around the garden's perimeter, and there were no neighbouring houses, and no neighbouring windows that could spy down at him from above. There was in fact nothing above him but sated blue and creamy, swirly clouds as they trawled lazily through the sky.

He stood in full sunshine, letting the warmth wash over him. A fat bluebottle of a fly buzzed around his shredded antenna. He took another timid step, his little feet squeaking in their grey loafers.

"D-Dib?" He called, making his slow, frightened way to a garage that was suddenly much further away than when it had first appeared as if it had picked itself up and moved of its own accord when he wasn't looking.

A butterfly of admiral blue landed on Zim's smooth right antenna and it stayed there a moment, opening up its wings as it sunbathed in the sun.

"I'm here, Zim." He hung up the last article of clothing and walked on over, one hand deep in the pocket of his jeans. His chin was afflicted by that ghoulish strange stubble of hair again. It was distracting to look at. He knelt down, but his smile was pale. "You okay? You don't usually come out here. Were you looking for me?"

"T-The ship." Zim said, scowling to hide his anxiety. "Show it to m-me!"

"Why...?" He began, effecting insolence when he didn't rush to obey.

"I did not ask you to question me!"

Dib's soft smile remained. "At once space boy."

His left loafer trailed a little on the ground, causing the fabric to rub. He got to the pool of shadow in the garage's entrance, and felt the cold shroud envelop him. Dib reached up and hit a button and the garage door lifted up _so slowly._ Within was a domed thing covered in dusty tarp. It sat there, hidden, as if it was crouching in wait to pounce on something.

Zim followed is human inside. The old brick and stone garage smelt of oil, rust, rubber and soil.

Dib grabbed hold of the canvas with both hands, and pulled. The tarp fell away like old skin, revealing dark red and black Tak's ship.

The chassis's sides and windshield, once bright with polish and care had now dulled with disuse. It was bigger than he had remembered; with its rearward compartment so pointy it was as if it had prickles and barbs instead of engines.

Some of its armour was pitted with a scattering of dents. Its registration mark along the underside of the windshield was encrusted in grime. The lower section that housed the tubing that carried the plasma fuel to and from the engines had been rent open, causing an array of black tubes to spill out like intestines. Though the memory was foggy around the edges, as all old memories tend to be when reminisced, he still remembered the ire guiding his hand as he rent open the ship and tore out its vitals so that Dib had no way of using it.

It felt like a century ago.

Dib stood there, still holding the tarp, looking all hopeful and stupid and expectant like he was a showman presenting some royally rare and exquisite antique.

To him it promised a whole lot of nothing.

What did Dib want him to say? That he was pleased he had kept the old thing?

It did his old heart good to see it, he supposed, but it was just like him. Broken. Useless. Redundant. Better off in some rubbish heap set for cremation.

Dib, sensing the despondency that was dropping on the Irken as surely as gravity dropped a stone, took one fistful of tarp and used it to wipe the windshield clean, revealing the cabin inside.

Zim peered in, trying to ignore that stubborn reflection of his peering back: the one with something blue and glowing out of his PAK.

Everything in the cockpit was intact. The command console looked pristine, a little dirty and grubby from the dusty air that had been carried through the scrubbers, but other than that it looked fine. The singular command chair was as pristine as the day it was made, and there were no holes in the cabin, no trailing wires, no marks other than the settling dust and occasional hanging thread of spider silk. He gathered that if her undersides hadn't been compromised, and that if her fuel tanks were even half full, she'd function near perfectly. But it was old now too. Like his Voot had once been. Remade, re-provisioned, and re-repaired about a hundred thousand times.

Zim scowled, his reflection in the windshield becoming all too clear to ignore.

The ship felt and looked more Irken than he did.

Here was Irken technology. The last of its kind on Earth; stranded, just like he was. He supposed he should be jubilant. Euphoric. Here was something that was tied to his distinction, his history; something that attributed to his prominence.

Dib knelt down, and rapped his knuckles on the toughened glass of its windshield. "It's yours."

"What do you expect me to do with it?"

"It's Irken technology, Zim! Take it apart, use it for raw material!"

Zim touched its cool, silky metal. When he next glanced at his reflection, it was looking back at him with softer reproach.

Fair to say, he was surprised Dib had not mentioned repairing it. Didn't his stink beast human ever want to fly in it again? Ever? Why then, was he suggesting he use it for scrap? And if this smeet worm of his were to happen, however a human made a smeet worm happen, wouldn't it like to fly in this ship too?

 _It has wings._

 _I could fly again._

Unease slipped across his eyes, and he turned away from the abysmal depths reflected back from the cabin's windshield.

"Very...uh...good of you Dib, for... uh... keeping it here. I shall... I shall make something of it." He said, just to say something to keep Dib from prying at the emotions he kept protected under lock and key.

And he would use it.

It magnified how frail he'd become, but by Irk he was going to overcome it. The ship needed a lot of repair. But he wasn't going to let it sit here rotting any longer.

He also supposed that, if he let the Dib thing help him, the work wouldn't take a century to achieve.

The ache in his chest had gone.

He dearly hugged his Gir doll, and gladly went with Dib back out into the heady sunshine. The bluebottles bothered him though. As he took a lazy swing at them, he looked to the creamy blue of the sky and the legions of clouds soaring into dizzying towers.

Things that had been unreachable now seemed possible. He mourned at not being able to feel the ship thrum beneath him, and mourned the effortless way he used to be able to speed his way to any particular destination in mind. He missed his old Voot most of all: and the voyages he'd spent in it whilst listening to Gir and his thousand silly anecdotes and songs.

The real question was: where should he go once he _could_ fly?

Dib was giving him that look: the look he gave Zim whenever the alien had just done something really stupid.

He also noticed that, when the human had pulled off the tarp, he had looked at the ship with a dose of apprehension, as if he was bequeathing some mad animal to the old Elite and not a ship.

So he thought Dib might mention what was on his mind. Instead he came out with something totally different. As they made it back to the porch, he said, "I'm sorry little guy. For leaving you home alone. I'm pretty stupid, huh?"

 _Don't call me little_. He despaired. "I barely remember." It was not a complete lie. He _did_ remember the tightening dread of being trapped. Of lonely whispers and feverish clawing; and the blood in his mouth when he'd woken up in the basement. They looked at him a little differently now: realizing perhaps how massively insecure he was: and that they should have known better from events in the not too distant past.

"Clara's going for her first baby scan in two days. You can wear the new disguise she made so that you can come with us."

"B-baby scan?" What did they need a scan for? To see it ripening inside of her? Just take it out and put it in a rejuvenation tank! How hard was it?

"Yup! You'll get to see it!"

He didn't want to. His imagination was bad enough.

-x-

Evening fell, washing the sky in the vibrant colours of purple, fire red and burnished gold. The house was quiet and still, and outside in the warm grass was the musical hum of crickets. Dib was sitting on the porch bench, overlooking his work resume that his boss Clifford had sent. He had to reapply himself, if he wanted his job back at all. Being the famous son of the professor hadn't saved him from the system, and how they dealt with employees who took a shit ton of sick leave.

He ticked some boxes, filled in some notes about himself and his previous experiences. He could easily fill ten A4 sheets about himself and the places he'd been to, and the things he'd recorded, but Clifford had only left a small box for such details.

This left him with a problem if he was accepted back. He'd be back in Gary's vicinity, and he had to consider bringing Zim along as a 'work experience' volunteer. He could leave him in the house with Clara, where he was safest. Just having her around might quieten his anxiety, but the old bug might still worry and fret until he got home from work.

He thought of Zim twirling like a loon in the petals.

Dib folded up the resume, and popped it in the envelope.

* * *

 **Dib07:** ALMOST forgot to mention! The reason Purple's report stated that Zim is dead is because the professor pulled out the device that reports PAK status back to their collective Irken database waaay back in his PAK surgery thingy. So Zim is now effectively invisible! Phew, is that everything? I hope that was everything!

Thank YOU so much for reading! Tell me what you think in the review section if you like, or PM me whenever! I always reply! Have a great day!


	7. A Question of Trust

**Saving Zim: Epilogue by Dib07**

 _ **Disclaimer:**_

 _I do not own the IZ characters. However this story and this idea is mine._

 _Cover art beautifully made by_ _Truekrisstianity!_ _All credit goes to her,_ _please do not use without his permission, thank you :)_

 _Paragraphs in italics means a past event._

* * *

 **Dib07:** A very special mention and chapter dedication to **Invaderzimmo** from Tumblr! They were such fun doodles, bursting with creativity and imagination and personality! I LOVED the coloured doodle; THAT was a real treat to see Zim sporting his blue PAK tube in a savvy coat and hat! BUT I was also so spellbound by the collection of little doodles too! Which goes to show all of what inspired you! The 'Gary is my favourite character' sign board Zim is holding up STILL cracks me up!

 **Guest**

Oh my gosh thank you thank you! My heart leapt when I read your review! And reviews are my treasures! I'm really pleased you found this story, and fell in love with it! Once you get into their heads, know the bond they have, and been with them for so long, with this world they're in, it's hard to keep my feelings under lock and key. I love how you mentioned the gestures, the dialogue, and the strengths they've built from their inner conflicts. I always feel like I go overboard. That no one notices these things. So you've reassured me, and other dear readers have been reassuring me too. So, uh, have an extra big chapter on me! *sweatdrop!*

 **Guest**

Oooh now there's a tough thing to answer! Urm well, yes, it will be so!

 **Isak**

Your praise! Thank you. So much. With all my heart. I enjoy writing, and I knew I'd done the right thing by sharing it. Yes I've had my fair share of flames and trolls, but because of your honest opinion, and enthusiasm, I know I will always have the strength to rise above it, and continue giving readers investing stories that take them away from reality and give them something they can love and enjoy. Heh, trust me, I'm glad I took this path with the story too! Honestly, it would barely have topped 30 chapters, as that's all I had planned for it. There were bigger projects, and SZ was just a side/ fun project that quickly turned into something else. Guess you can never keep an old bug down. And oooh yes this story is littered in silly mistakes! It's gotten too big for me to maintain and I have no beta checkers to keep me on the straight and narrow. Writing can be a lonely job, and it's hard to keep on top of it with so many other commitments and work. Trust me, whenever I see a mistake, I feel like punching the wall! XD I'll try and clean them up as I go! *much tears* Yes, I've had a few ask me if this is going to be ZADR. I understand that people want it to be, but I try and keep these characters strictly canon, as canon as they can be.

Oh and they'll be plenty of the Tallest, and what you're hoping for! I daren't say anything more, cuz I don't want to spoil anything, but there's more acoming! Sadly there was no room left in this chapter to include any more with the Keri, (I know – I am DESPERATE to show off what's gonna happen) but yeah, the reactions. It would be priceless! And what would our Zim do? Join them, or bow once again to his superiors, forever trapped beneath their chains? _''And I'm pretty sure a well that his dream had something to do with future chapters thus the idea of him appearing in the battlefield.''_ You're perceptive. Very perceptive. I like that. I love writing dreams, because you can stuff in all the special stuff and no one would know! Your review was BEAUTIFUL AND INSPIRING! I just hope I can keep fulfilling your imagination and expectations, because, uh, Zim's home life is such thing to set up even though I am despairing to get to the sci-fi stuff! I LOVED your review, read it so many times! I need to give some love to my other fics as well, now that I've updated this one!

* * *

 **CHAPTER 7: A Question of Trust**

 _'I can lead with pride, I can make us strong_  
 _I'll be satisfied if I play along_  
 _But the voice inside sings a different song_  
 _What is wrong with me?_  
 _See the light as it shines on the sea? It's blinding_  
 _But no one knows, how deep it goes_

 _And it seems like it's calling out to me, so come find me_  
 _And let me know, what's beyond that line, will I cross that line?_  
 _See the line where the sky meets the sea?_  
 _It calls me_  
 _And no one knows, how far it goes_  
 _If the wind in my sail on the sea stays behind me_  
 _One day I'll know, how far I'll go'_

 _How Far I'll Go - Chase Holfelder_

 _-x-_

His effort seemed ponderous, and like the lingering awkward notes from the piano as he touched a lonesome key, he suddenly choked on a certain kind of hopelessness – a hopelessness that had always been there. He was almost too afraid to touch the next key as if there was violation in the act of touching it, and when he gave the key a tap the sound receded into something he could no longer hear or reach or chase.

But there were times when he had to take the next step despite not knowing what came next. Within was an Irken coded tenacity that summoned and poured out his strengths as he glided from one mission to the next, guided by an endless hope that was equally fevered with burden.

Though he had seemed fearless, fear had also driven him.

He did not have the answers, and only knew to keep going.

He was that train without brakes. When a corner came up, and when he had no time to turn, he simply mowed over that corner with that same bull-headed stride. The trick was just to keep on moving. You were untouchable that way.

Many an Irken had stood idle in the battlefield. They had never lasted.

He ran indolent and gloveless claws along the cool wooden grain of his black piano to feel again the strange texture of earthly material. There were no accompaniments in way of technology answering back. This was his life now, as plain and as basic as it was. He was a domesticated creature with normal ordinary routines that didn't involve warfare. What would other Irkens think, if they ever saw him like this?

He knew things could not remain constant, unchanging. His train track had run out. He'd seen the end coming for him for some time.

He hit the same key, and the music floated there for a moment. He drew out a sigh, and could not deny the relief he felt. Everything that was once forbidden and inaccessible was now permissible for him to explore, discover. But he felt likened to a machine encumbered with too much data to download.

And he had been that machine.

How could an Irken learn happiness, and have dreams, now that he was acquainted with so much freedom?

He couldn't download it all.

And he wasn't totally free. His PAK that had anchored him to immortality now anchored him to mortality. He couldn't go long without medication. Every morning and every evening he was jarred by the reaffirmation of this dependence.

So was everything still a slow march to certain doom?

What compelled him to keep taking that step forward? Was it insanity, or his old miserable defiance?

There was no guidance from his computer, and even the voices in his head offered nothing new.

He stared glumly at the keys and then lifted his eyes up at the Gir doll that sat drooped on the top of the piano. The doll looked eternity to his master with that same soft playful smile.

Zim put a claw to the key, tapping.

 _Ding. Ding._

He levelled his eyes at the doorway to make sure no one was watching, then, like a vacuous fool he went back to staring at the composition of black and white before him as if they might present him with an answer.

He could wake in bed and know immediately where he was without sliding into a panic. This new home was becoming more like his real home even if he sometimes pined for the honeycomb of his secretive subterranean depths. It was a lot to accept: a lot of precautions and protective measures he had to live without.

Hollow inside he felt sometimes, as if whatever had been in him had been scooped out.

The keys were all in tune. They sounded as harmonious as his piano at home. Music had its own sentience, like the instrumental pulse of his machines in their soft hums and clicks and lights - a mechanical ambience that somehow managed to soothe him in the same way arithmetic evaluations had soothed his troubled mind.

His claw hit the key again and it sounded out a long, lonesome note that hung in the air far longer than it should.

 _Why am I mopping around like this? This is a waste of time! Do something ZIM!_

He stared awhile longer, trying to summon the courage to make a decision from the clanging dissonance in his head.

He flexed his mutinous left hand in his right, praying it would not fail him. Keeping everything in key was hard enough when he only had six fingers with which to play. He used to cheat with the harder symphonies, often honing the beat with an assisting tap of a PAK leg or as many as four as additional fingers.

He needed some kind of synchronization, something to steady his shakes.

Zim paused, hitting the key with a resulting _ding._

Drawing out another shaky breath he followed it up with a shriller note and then another as his fingers found the keys before his grasping mind could. He hit the wrong note; the discordance jarring him. A touch of anger threatened to end his diffident floundering, and the next key he struck was no gentle tap.

He struck another, allaying his clamouring anxieties with the tenacity to just keep at it. Irkens didn't give up.

Angrily he thumped home the notes, the cadence coming to him; helping him feel brave again. He fell into it, throwing all his pent up aggression at the piano to produce a black tide of music.

He felt like he had to fight it, wrestle it, and shepherd it under his control. It didn't matter if there was no rhythm, no coherence, there was only noise and that was what he wanted! But his wild and runaway thoughts continued, almost above the lunatic beat of sound.

His PAK was good now, it was fine! He didn't need to loosen it from its slots and flip it round in his claws to check and see! It didn't need any more duct tape to keep it going!

But how long would it last? The power was holding out at 34%.

His jaws clenched as his claws pounded mercilessly at the keys. He tried not to see it as a violation. Rather, as a rescue.

 _'This is nothing new, my son. He's been ill for a very, very long time. He kept his condition hidden, maybe even from himself.'_

He'd lain there in that MRI tunnel, feeling as much as hearing too much of everything.

The Protector had shown him that it was okay to let slip the control that he had been holding so tightly, that it was okay to push back pride and accept help. That the train could slow down, could adjust to a better pace, and turn that corner.

He ignored the pain in his claws as he thumped away. This was good. It prevented him from taking it out on Clara's swirly expensive china plates and vases. Irk she kept so many useless ornaments! No more slashing up the wallpaper for him. No no! He'd destroy the piano keys instead, beating out some manic tune that fitted the tempo of his rage.

The little Gir jiggled atop the perch on the piano but he didn't notice. All he could feel was the melody beating against his claws and antenna as he sought the sanctuary within the notes.

Maybe his creativeness needed an outlet. Or maybe this rage was simply more viable to contemplate than dwelling on problems.

Too often he found himself thinking about the professor, and how he missed him.

The human-tallest had kindly taken his hand and written the correct algorithm for his dissimilating PAK.

The professor's accuracy never wavered. He thought something would complain deep inside the PAK and that he would pay for it somehow. The absurd wonders of human barbarism still astonished as much as confused him.

One eye wide, the other eclipsing into a hard narrowed crevasse that glared as he hammered away, the crescendo built, and his claws found the right place at the right time.

What _would_ be around the next corner? What did fate have planned for him?

He would march on to meet it, and raise his head to the challenge.

Taking another step wasn't all that hard. He had been doing it since he'd been born. It was okay to get old. Okay to slow down. Okay to let go. Okay to be broken.

But every night - the breathlessness - filling his chest like concrete.

 _I'm gonna die on this planet._ He thought.

 _'You've had a seizure.'_

 _Wh-what's a 'sea-zure?_

With a final slam on the keys he stopped, and the noise sailed off in shrill protest.

He was done.

Sourly he pushed himself away, the room falling upon him with its unsavoury silence. Fear went into him like a knife. No, he did not know what was going to happen next, and what was expected of him, and what he was to expect. He slid into routine, orders and plans, even if said plans were never smooth, happy affairs. It was the purpose they entitled that suited him so.

He was not afraid to stand again in the light of the aftermath. But personal failures were an altogether different enemy to the usual foes he had once faced.

There were no direct approaches, and no clear solutions.

Like he had been taught, Irkens had to keep moving. That was how you remained untouchable.

He snapped his antenna down as the problems threatened to breach his shores again. If he could ignore them, he would, as he had ignored the failings he had discovered in combat, and in old age.

The tightness in his chest, the spells when he could get no air and the coughing and the shakes - there was no getting over it, around it or through it. There was only the enduring of it.

Dib, meanwhile, having heard the first stumbling notes of earlier, had crept down the stairs and hovered near the doorframe, out of sight, knowing that the moment Zim realized he had a curious audience, he would stop.

The music coughed to an aggressive tempo, the deeper dongs chorusing with rarely used higher notes as the deeper, broodier notes took point. The Irken who was hammering out the heavy-handed tune was so very different to the creature that had cornered him at school; the one who had tried to playfully decapitate him using the sharp struts of Tak's ship, and the one who had screamed into gales of laughter when he was sure he had won through violence.

Dib was not very knowledgeable on classical music, but he was sure that Zim was playing – or _trying_ to play – something familiar, something he had heard on the radio. He hadn't bought any music sheets for him so it wasn't like he was using that as a means to play, and he had not seen any LP records or CDs in his base.

The notes grew unsteady for a moment, a claw dropping too late on a key.

Dib found that he'd clenched his fist as if he'd been pulled by the music and the emotional tension beneath. The notes continued: barely smoothing out as if the pianist was overtaken by a rage that needed to be let out.

Another key was missed, the rhythm breaking.

Zim was attempting something way too hard, almost as if he was challenging himself, or was looking for some nirvana – something he might have once turned to when everything else was in chaos.

Then there came the sudden silence.

Dib leaned with his back against the wall.

Those erratic tunes epitomized the lines on the ECG, and how they had also dropped away into a tombstone silence.

He hid his face behind one hand. He thought he'd got over it, or at least some of it. He'd shoved it away, underneath so much. But the haunting melody Zim had tried to play had brought it back. The memories. The panic. The heartache. So when he guiltily stepped into the parlour, Zim suddenly straightened as he stood by the piano stool, his look of horror plain when he realized someone had been eavesdropping.

"D-Dib?"

Arms were thrown around him, cinching him tight. Dib dropped to his knees, and buried his face against his chest.

Zim stood a moment, blinking. "Dib?"

Dib couldn't say anything. There was nothing he wanted _to_ say. Was it so selfish to just hold him until he was pushed or clawed away?

He was as thin as paper in his arms, with eyes as bright as holes in the sky. He remembered the cold dark evening – the way the pink and purple armour had shone as he fell, and the sound the PAK legs made when they hit the floor; a soldier reduced to a whimpering creature from the pain he couldn't carry anymore.

He didn't care what Zim thought of him in that moment. He was done with the self-assured masks and smiles and acts, done with the mock courage. He only wanted to hold him tight, and feel how real he was when he'd nearly vanished from this life.

"Dib!" A harder reprimand, but there was no push or shove or curse to reinforce it. The only thing he felt sorry for was getting the old bastard's turtleneck sweater wet. "Dib? Please! Why are y-you crying?" It was a weak rebuke. The surprised frown had long left, leaving something more fragile in its place. Slowly Zim raised a hand, but not to push him off. He rested it on Dib's shoulder.

His own shoulders, rigid with tension, finally softened.

-x-

He glanced aimlessly at the glossy pile of wedding invitations strewn across the coffee table in desultory gloom as if there might be a warning hidden among them somewhere. Dib rubbed at his forehead, took off his glasses to rub there too, and slid them back on. Clara had been through the invites, writing out her share in better confidence. He went through his pile with slow tedium, and hoped his fiancée wouldn't see it as reluctance.

He stared most of all at his sister's name, written in heavy strokes across the dark pink card. Inviting her round for coffee, and showing her Zim before the event was what he and Clara had secretly agreed upon. Gaz had rung him up on the phone in fact, a few days before, wanting to see him and asked about his burns and how he was fairing. She did not know they had Zim living with them, and it was better to show him to her than explain it on the phone. The reason for this was that he wanted her to see Zim as he was now. Not as she remembered him. It was his only leverage to get her to agree to this.

After all, he needed someone to keep an eye on the little guy, primarily when he did not know how the Irken would react with so much going on at once. He reacted spontaneously and explosively when things hit his stress points, and sometimes all it took was a pat on his shoulder and a soft word to soothe him. But Gaz wasn't the motherly caring sort, especially not to an Irken who had left her brother in the hospital on more than one occasion, or landing him in the Asylum.

He felt like he was going to have to be a brilliant diplomat to keep everyone happy, and it was a wedding, not a battle!

Clara loved him. He loved her.

And once it was all officially stamped and sealed, they could officially adopt Zim, and have his papers, which would then make him a certified citizen. His father had already dropped the hint that he could produce fake records and nationality. The old grump was going to have to put up with being an American.

Clara was thinking of ways to conceal Zim's greenness. Keeping the affair a secret, she sat the little thing on her stool in front of the dresser mirror and started brushing some pink concealment pigmentation onto his silky skin. Zim meanwhile played with the mascara and lipstick, thinking the lipstick was some gooey red crayon he could draw with. Then poor Clara had had to spend the rest of the day carefully tending to his face with healing anointments. His skin had erupted into blotchy sores from the chemicals in the concealment cream.

Dib stopped staring at the invites when he could smell something burning.

"Zim!" He yelled; glad for the distraction. "You'd better not have blown up the cooker too!"

Moments later, Zim arrived; smacking the door open with a loafer (which must have hurt) and came in carrying a tray perched on the claws of his right hand. "Dib beast! Taste one of my brilliant cookies!" He smiled, all sly and devious, but there was a guilty look there too, something unusually shy nearly hidden beneath the wraps of his arrogance. "I assure you it'll be the best thing you've ever tasted!"

"Are you hoping these marvellous cookies of yours will help water away the pain of yet another accident?"

He gave a snort of disgust. "Irken soldiers don't have accidents! And I'm the best of them!"

Dib frowned down at him, a constant habit, being that Zim was so small. He got off the sofa and knelt down to look at what Zim was so proudly presenting. On the burning hot tray were cookies, all vaguely shaped in the Irken military symbol, down to the nefarious eye in the centre. Some of the sugary syrup had burst from the dough, and had coagulated into simmering hot puddles that had turned black.

He was wearing one of Dib's hand-me-down blue shirts he had worn when he was twelve with the grey emoji on the front. The shirt went down to the little creature's knees, the sleeves to his elbows. The PAK poked snugly out at the back with its ugly blue modification. Black pants completed his outfit, but the sleeves, though baggy around his arms, only served to reveal how bony he was.

" _You_ made these?"

The tone in his voice must have been a little too reproving for Zim's ice-thin insecurities, as his eyes quickly hardened into apertures and his croaky vocals pealed out. "Of COURSE I did!"

"And did Clara help?" He hoped she had. An unsupervised Irken in the kitchen was super deadly.

Zim's right antenna lifted in that procrastinated way. "A... little." Then he hurried on. "Well? Take one!"

Dib reached over and took one. He popped it into his mouth, wincing at how hot it still was. Zim was watching carefully, looking for approval. Dib chewed and chewed whilst fighting back the urge to spit it out. It was overly sweet as if Zim had dumped the whole contents of a sugar bag into the dough, and there was something else there too, something burnt and chemically, as if the Irken had baked them in napalm. He supposed that, if he wanted to kill a few guests at the wedding, he could just serve them their Zim-special cookies.

"Well?" He croaked.

"Yeah..." Dib coughed some of it back into his mouth; the damn thing was so dry! He needed a bucket of water to wash it down with. "Really good!"

"I knew it!" Zim said delightfully, smiling a wide, toothy smile. "You humans like those acorn things right? I'll add them into the next batch!"

"No, no, not acorns!" He said, not wanting everyone with broken teeth. Zim had been out in the garden collecting them, in case they were super tasty. He'd been watching the squirrels jumping into the garden and taking them, and naturally the Irken saw competition in it. "They're perfect as they are!"

Zim smiled again, all smug, and twirled round and went back through the door with a spring in his step. When he'd gone, Dib spat out what was left in his mouth and put it into a tissue. Clara was spending a lot of time with the Irken, and Dib suspected it was her way of keeping his mind off the pregnancy, but Dib had caught Zim staring at her belly a few times in that slack-jawed way, fear heavy and dark in those colourful orbs.

As he put the tissue in the waste bin he heard Zim's squeaky laughter rising from the kitchen. He was up to something. Had to be up to something. Whenever the Irken hatched a plan, he could never hide his pleased smirk. But when was the last time Zim had really laughed? It wasn't his usual maniacal laugh, but it was still that patented snigger that hadn't pealed under their roof until now. He wanted to join them, and leave his dark circle of worry, yet within the space of twenty seconds, he was out the front door again, having quickly disengaged an Irken's locks just to check the mail box.

Nothing had changed; it was empty, just as it had been earlier. He plodded back into the hallway, and closed the door, all locks promptly engaging some autopilot mode and relocking everything as soon as the door clicked home. The force field barrier was still under construction. Dib was pretty sure Zim forgot things when he was partway through a job. He'd accidently seen him hitting his head on the wall, muttering frantically to himself.

Dib pushed his hands through his hair. It was tough, letting Zim do his thing, and not letting suspicion get the better of him. If anything, THEY were the ones with the plan; a plan that was likely going to upset Zim's little world. They hadn't yet broached the subject of the wedding to him. Zim may surprise them yet, and go along with it just fine. The hardest part of the whole event was taking his eyes off him, and living the day as a husband. God. The title sounded so weird, even in his head.

Clara came in, looking flushed, but she was wearing an easy go-lucky smile. Over her clothing was an apron peppered in sooty smears. She wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him tight. "How are you getting on with the invites?"

"Great, just great! Are you and Zim having fun in the kitchen without me?"

"He's in a really good mood. Must be that strange ship he's working on. He showed me it, and wouldn't stop talking about it for hours. I didn't understand a thing he said, but he's so sweet when he's excited."

 _Please. Don't mention that ship._ "Uh huh."

Her breezy smile dropped. "I gotta ask you something. I know you said no last time."

"Yeah, what?" He couldn't remember what she was on about.

"If everything goes well. With me, with the wedding, I want Zim to have a pacemaker fitted."

She just wanted him to be around to see the baby, and the Irken's problems were a little too serious to be solved by something as simple as a pacemaker. There were some nights when the Irken simply couldn't get a breath. And it was frightening her.

"Have you mentioned this to him?" He asked.

"No. We never did, did we? Zim was kept out of the loop."

Dib sighed and shook his head which strangely made her flinch as if she'd been hit. "My answer hasn't changed. Besides, it won't make any difference. He's doing fine. In fact, he's beating the odds right now. You know he has breathing issues! That's the blood in his lungs! It's not going away!"

"I don't think that's very fair, that's all. What if he's fine for a few months, and then he goes downhill?"

"Jesus, Clara! He's old! He let his PAK damage his organs! He's trying to live as best a broken thing can! Why even bring this up? We've been over this! You know we can only give him palliative care!" It came out harsher than he intended.

"I don't want to... I don't want to watch him die."

There it was.

"Clara..."

She looked away, losing all her courage, and walked out the parlour doorway.

-x-

"Don't forget to come in for a drink. There's food on the table, and an inhaler if you need it. I'll be in here, keeping an eye on you."

Zim tiredly rolled his eyes as she fussed over him. Next they'd be getting him a walkie talkie, he was sure.

 _She's just humanly hormonal._ He thought to himself as she brought him into a hug. _She cries a lot now too._

He'd come and sit by her, and every time he did, she put on a happy face, her eyes blinking through the tears, and she'd crush him in her arms until he was sure his tube would pop out of the PAK's mantle.

"I can't eat any more, Clara. My spooch is full."

"In an hour then."

He groaned.

Maybe the baby would be a good thing, as it would be something to take her mind off him.

It was unusually hot as he took Gir out with him. The washing line boasted brightly coloured garments, Clara's dresses and tiny-Zim-sized clothing. The new washing machine was as a silent as a kitten, and was far superior to the old one, so in that he had done them a favour.

He could not feel a single breath of wind on his antenna. Everything seemed to sit low and still, with the sleepy crickets droning in the grass. The sky was this dark, liquid blue that seemed impossibly close. Zipping across this sapphire expanse was the frothy white line of a plane making its way across continents. Zim glared up at the plane, a claw slung over his eyes to shield them from the sun's lofty vigil. Before he became too bitter about it he was distracted by a mosaic butterfly of red and emerald. It fluttered over to the white roses that he and Clara had planted the day before. He came over to inspect their pointy leaves and silky pearly petals. They were as pristine as yesterday. Deftly he explored the point of a thorn, feeling its sharp elegant curve as it joined the stem.

He wanted the garden to be full of roses.

Doing his rounds, he next checked on the pink and purple fuchsia. Hanging onto the stems with their little nub arms were two huge caterpillars of hazel and brown. Clara said that they were hawkmoth caterpillars, and that one day they'd change into pink moths that had wings to fly.

Carefully he reached out, and stroked the bigger one with the knuckle of his claw. He liked to see them as his pets, and he dutifully checked in on them, and to see what they were up to. Big Boy, he called the fatter of the two, and the other one was named Hidey, because it liked to hide a lot. Dib had nearly died laughing when he told him their names, and that he checked on them every day.

His right antenna suddenly twitched.

He turned sharply, and saw Clara watching him from the kitchen window. When she noticed him noticing her, she did a meek little wave, which he returned in prim salute. He did not understand why they were so prudent and wary with him. Had he done something wrong more recently? Were they starting to regret the decision of taking him on?

Last night, after waiting for Clara to fill the little bath in safe water, he'd shut the door and soaked in the tub for ages, eyes closed, melting in the warmth. He must have lost track of time, because before he knew it, they were banging on the door, asking him if he was okay. It was only later that he suspected they had timed him and this brought forth anger and resentment. He could spend as long as he wanted in the bathroom!

Putting Gir down he picked up the stick he had left to one side and used it to hit the overhead button. The garage door opened in a yawn, revealing the great hulk of the craft within, half covered up. He stood in the opening of the garage door a moment, claws in his black pant pockets as he stared in silent contemplation. It was too quiet, too still. He wanted to spoil all this peace with the sounds of metal hitting metal: of the fizz and whir of the grinder, and the crackle of plasma.

Inside were loads of fire extinguishers as if his humans knew of his former spontaneous mishaps.

He moved forwards, his right hand settling on the cool hull, and he let his claws rest there a moment. The ghostly pale reflection in the dusty windshield mirror looked worried. He pasted on a sneer which blew away the unsavoury manifestation.

He patted it, caressed it some as if the ship was a living animal that needed to be reassured. Not so long ago, this technology was as familiar to him as his PAK, and rerouting its wires and parts would have been customary, even absurdly nostalgic, but now he felt as if he was reacquainting himself with something he had less understanding of. It exemplified his half life. Like him, it was an isolated relic: the last of its kind this side of the galaxy, and without help, without repair, it could not fly.

But it stank of Tak, even now, even when she hadn't piloted it in two decades. He hated her choice of colour, of design.

And Dib would need to rename it, once he was back in the command chair.

Testing its flying capabilities was going to be a problem.

The human was young, and would be able to withstand the G-forces.

He had strongly believed that Dib would be more than eager to repair this ship alongside him, (any excuse to learn more about Irken tech and engineering – right?), but he had shown no interest, or had been simply too busy preparing for the grub's imminent arrival.

The ship's sorry and neglected state left him feeling angry too. It wasn't like the craft meant anything special to him. It was no Voot Runner, but it was Irken tech, and it had been left to slide into ruin, again loudly highlighting his analogous defeat and the wall of cutting isolation. It represented a past he was severed from, a past so long gone. The Zim he was now was a far cry to the Zim he used to be. If he could change it somehow, fix it somehow, could he also gain some catharsis?

"Time to get to work, Gir." He huskily muttered, flicking his eyes over to the doll. He sat it on a low shelf, so that it could watch him work. He looked at the doll, almost as if he was awaiting some reply. He had the carcass of the real Gir in his room. But, for some reason he felt less keen talking to a bunch of bits and a disembodied head.

He shrugged, and turned back to the ship. He tugged at the tarp, and it came away, landing in a pile by its intestinal tubing. He did a preliminary visual check all around it, realizing how much damn maintenance the damn craft needed. The propulsion systems were stuffed full with leaf litter and twigs as if a hundred birds had made their nests in there. There was also old evidence of the asteroid's collision with its port side, thusly damaging the oxygen tanks within. Dib must have thrown the ship around up there, or the navigation equipment hadn't been brought correctly online. Without an Irken signature he may as well have flown blindfolded. The idiot!

Zim shook his head, tutting under his breath. Dib had never mentioned it. Ever. As if retelling the nature of the account was too scary.

He pulled on a pair of surgical gloves, knowing he'd have to begin with the heavy work of the ship's undercarriage and rear engines – the main auxiliary turbine he could open directly from the stern but it was enclosed behind a heavy shutter. It would need to be opened and then propped up.

But first, the cabin.

Zim hit the manual release panel on the underside of the ship's bow and the cabin opened, admitting entry. His smile broadened. Wouldn't Dib be so pleased once it was all new and smooth and brilliant once again! If only he could build the courage to ask him for a tiny little bit of...help.

He eased his aching bones inside and sat behind the dashboard. For a long time he did nothing but look at the console and the touch panels. It had been so very long since last he had last sat in a cockpit. It was a bit roomy for his liking, suited for a taller Irken, and he had to pull the seat closer to the control panel, and the controls were not in their usual places. He was used to the organisation of the Voot, how comfy it was, and how the instruments were within easy reach, both for his claws and his mind. At least the seat was moderately comfy. But he kept the lid of the cockpit open. Even as he sat there, he wasn't at all keen on the slope of glass hanging above him: ready to drop down and seal him in as the autodoc had.

He sought for the auxiliary power key. It was a pull-handgrip he discovered, not a touch-screen variant the Voot had.

Tak's ship really was a damn antique.

He pulled it, turning it counter-clockwise, and at once the ship's internals came to life. He had assumed that there would be no power left: its energy slowly draining away with the seasons; a reflection of his own ticking clock.

The screen flared up after a few false stutters.

Its energy reading was represented in Irken inscription. His eyes lit up at the familiarity of the slashing symbols, but for a moment he could not read it. It scarily was just a jumble of symbols that meant nothing. He blinked, which did nothing, so he then rubbed angrily at his eyes, sure that his vision was just a little bit foggy. When he opened them again, he squeaked in rue.

 _I can't read them! Why can't I read them? Maybe Tak reads mumbo jumbo and this isn't standardized Irken writing at all?_

 _What DID that professor man take out of me? I'm still Zim. I'm still...me._

He couldn't believe he was doing this. "Computer. Translate to English!"

Tak's voice blared suddenly into the cockpit, causing him to start.

Her old recorded voice system was trying to announce a reply or a command. Something must have got down the pipes that served as the ship's speaker, for there was a lot of static and a hiss of incomprehensible words.

"Tak's computer then! Whatever! Translate to English!"

There was an evanescent moment of silence, and then: "Zim. Is that you? GET OUT OF MY SHIP!"

"Finally, English. Now to hack you out of this ship."

"No! You can't! My mistress will find you for this! You want inverted force fields that'll smash you out of my cockpit? I'll give you your force fields!"

"Sorry, what was that?" He ran his bony finger up the black panel on the left-hand side of the control panel, and then braced his left hand on the requested flashing imprint. **Irken pilot confirmed.** It read in English. **Registration necessary.** "Energy report." He said, ignoring the newest request. He'd have to get back to the professor about his PAK registration code. He shamefully couldn't remember it.

The energy report was displayed on the console screen in bright purple: holding at 11%. It was barely enough to run any diagnostics. The ship's CPU power would need to be recharged.

He swayed his hand over the dashboard, and more instruments lit up. Interfaces came on, lights blinked. Much of it was in critical disrepair, so nothing was coming back green and healthy.

"If I had the energy, I'd disembowel you." Retorted the ship.

Zim frowned questionably at the console. Deeper hacking was obviously required. More work for an increasingly tiring body.

Trying not to think about it, he toggled with the transmitter dial: hearing the static yawn tenaciously through the cabin. It was almost like switching channels on a radio.

At first there was nothing _but_ heavy static as it droned continuously through his speakers. What Zim was listening to was the symphony of the cosmos. This transmitter could pick up the very voice of the stars and planets; and the solar winds that raced through their atmospheres, including the radioactivity that filled their auras. Deep space was not a silent place to the right instrument. And the further the distances between transmissions, the greater these natural elements would garble calls from other ships, no matter how powerful the transceiver.

His little modified radio in his room hadn't been able to pick up on anything. But this ship's powerful transceiver would.

Trying to master some patience, Zim turned the dial with jerky claws.

There were many soldiers in Irken space that helped bounce transmission signals to each other, or amplify said transmissions. Messages were often left at relay stations for explorative groups, or current Empire affairs. But mostly they were used as locators for other ships. Sometimes there were 'dead zones' when an Irken vessel flew to the dark side of a planet, and, due to space radiation and 'noise,' no signal could get through until they broke out onto the other side. These relays helped prevent that, so that no Irken on a long, remote space voyage was ever cut off for long.

Zim plucked at the toggle of his transceiver, hunting for telltale transmissions without sending out any of his own. He did not want anyone to notice that he was still sending out signals. The Tallest gave him his final order, and he had disobeyed it. It made him sick with fear of what they'd do to him and when, but he'd fulfil their orders soon enough, in his own time, quite literally.

As the ship's transceiver searched through the cacophony of space, the static resounding in his cabin changed to a high pitched squeal that made his bad antenna pitch in pain. He turned it down, and made short work to condense the signal. It was Irken. But he felt no braver upon hearing it. The fact that he was finally falling onto the tail of the beast he was hunting made chills run deep through his bones.

And there was something else: an alien signal beneath it all. It droned through the chilling music, a deep thrum that made his eyes water and his right antenna scale upwards in discomfort. He could feel _something_ reaching out for him. He gave out a croak and threw his right fist into the console, cutting off the alien signal.

It was a bad signal, just a bad signal.

He had looked too far into the stars, and that wasn't what he was meant to be doing.

Hearing that noise – whatever it had been – made him shiver from cold. He left the command chair by lifting himself out with numb legs.

The missing part of his left antenna hurt. Sometimes he had more feeling in what he had lost than what remained.

He had come out here to get away from the transitional change that was sweeping the house but he felt no farther away.

It was happening. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

But there was no comfort out here either.

To make sure Tak wouldn't upset his concentration again, he hit off the intercom speakers and slouched down, PAK braced against the ship's hull as he sat before sweeping his knees to his chest. He felt discombobulated.

-x-

 _All curled up he had been, snugly snuggled in the middle of their bed, being the last to rise. He had bunched the blankets tightly to his chest and was snoozing deeply, having the bestest best sleep ever when: Wham WHAM! Give it a moment, and the WHAM would then turn into a kind of ugly ceaseless sawing. Getting cross, he had pulled the duvet over his head. The noise would stop a moment, and he made the mistake of relaxing when the sawing started up again._

" _Would you quit that already?" He hollered, having to poke his head up from the duvet and blankets, but his hollering was a dial up from a croak, and the banging was so loud that it was highly unlikely that anybody had heard. "D-Dib! Is that you making that STUPID noise?"_

 _Slipping into his snug grey loafers that one of the stinky humans had left out for him, he padded tiredly across the floor with that slight left-sided drag, the Gir doll slung under one arm._

 _It was all coming from within that blue door._ _The door's very existence topped his acquired list of nuisances, representing mysteries he could not cope to have unsolved._

" _Zim, leave that door alone, just for now, okay? It's full of nails and loose boards. It's not safe for you to go wandering in there." Said the Dib once._

" _I can go in there if I want! Do you think you can stop me? This house is mine! Every room in it is MINE!"_

" _Zim. What did I tell you about sharing, hmm?"_

" _To hell with your sharing!"_

 _That was yesterday. Now the door was shut, and Dib was hammering away in there._

" _Dib? D-Dib!" He started tapping his knuckles on the wood of the door. "You open this door at once!"_

 _There was an abrupt pause amidst the turbulent banging and sawing and drilling, followed by a rattle of keys, and then the door squeaked open. Dib peered out. There was dust in his black hair and on the glass of his lenses. "Oh, morning!" He said in stupid innocence._

" _Don't 'morning' me! You better show me what's in there! Or else!" He slung his arms together (crushing the Gir doll), feet apart, chin titled upwards._

 _He noticed that Dib wasn't wearing his jacket. On his bare arm above his elbow was a nicotine patch. "I should know by now not to take any chances with you. It's just not quite finished yet."_

" _Move aside!" Zim nudged past him, which wasn't at all like the shove he had meant to demonstrate, and slipped into the room, his eyes flashing left and right in the presets of anxiety._

 _The room smelt strongly of fresh paint and wood chippings._

 _He was expecting to lay eyes on something fabulously dangerous maybe. Why else would they keep him at arm's length until whatever-they-were-working-on was done? But when he stalked in, arms folded, eyes narrowing, he was left feeling sour with misgivings when he saw nothing extraordinary about it._

" _It's going to be the nursery." The human said with a soft, happy smile._

" _N-Nursery?"_

" _Yup!"_

 _Zim squinted up at him, his remaining antenna flaring upright like a flagless pole. "Nursery?" He said again, his back bowed beneath the weight of the PAK he bore._

 _Dib looked a tad uncomfortable. "Yes! You know, when Clara has the baby._ _With you, it's like we've already got a kid. An ugly, delinquent one." He laughed._

 _A white wooden crib stood in the centre of the room in a ray of lazy sunshine from the opposite window. Its oaken bars and curves were soft and new. Dib put his hand on it with pride, and ran his fingers along its length as if in ritual greeting._ _Above the crib was a hanging mobile of planets, stars and little alien spaceships. It slowly turned in the heady breeze, each hanging item glinting and jingling in the sun._

 _By the door was a bookshelf already half full with Early Bird books, baby first-reads and picture books. The drapes at the window were cotton white, with flowers embroidered on them. They diaphanously fluttered in the breeze like fairy wings._

" _Made the crib myself." He said with a heartfelt sigh, fingers tapping the soft white wood of the crib. "It was harder than I imagined. I'm not used to using a hammer I guess."_

" _It's a cage." Zim observed. "You put your own human smeet things in cages? Is it because they're...dangerous?"_

" _No, no!" He rolled his eyes, smiling at his hopeless naivety. "It's to keep them safe."_

" _Safe? You put them in cages to keep them safe? I demand that you make sense!"_

" _Because babies aren't smart, Zim. They're more accident prone than you are."_

 _Stiffly he went to stand by the crib, looking through the bars, wondering what would be there someday: lying in that cot. Would it be like a smeet? Or would it look ugly and grotesque? Would it look like a miniature Dib? Or a miniature Clara? He did not know much about babies. All he used to care about was what missiles were best at long range, and which button to press when it was time to unleash the full apocalypse. He had seen toddlers before. Toddlers in push trolley things when he went shopping. They giggled and cackled, and slimed and drooled and tore apart their own toys as if they were practising how best to dismember their prey for when they were older, like the savagery of animals displayed on TV._

" _Zim? Fudgekin?" Dib knelt by him, one hand on his little shoulder._

" _Will... will I see it someday?"_

" _Oh Zim. Of course you will." He felt a pang of guilt as he said it. "They're very delicate, human babies. They get damaged easily."_

" _Like... like handling nuclear chemicals? Spill it and it's game over?"_

" _Urm... I guess?" He grew reflective for a moment, letting the little guy look and study the nursery._

" _Dib. You won't love your little beastie more than Zim, right?"_

 _He smiled again, knowing to tell the old dope what he wanted to hear. "Never. You're number one."_

" _That's what I thought."_

 _Then he patted the old Irken's shoulder, gently reminding him that it was time to go. "When the baby arrives... I want you to promise me something. A real promise. Like the promise we made about not turning our backs on each other."_

 _Zim stiffened at once._

" _It's nothing like that," he gently added, seeing the conflict race through Zim's eyes, "I'm not asking anything big."_

" _Then what is it, Dib worm?"_

" _I don't want you coming in here once the baby arrives. Okay? You can come here with either me or Clara, but never on your own. You've got to swear to me."_

" _Uh... fuck you?"_

" _No, no, Zim. Not that kind of swearing."_

" _Oh." He ran his hand up and down the bone of his arm, watching the crib as a huntsman watches a sleeping tigress. "Is it because it'll...try to eat me?"_

" _Babies have no teeth. Or claws. The worst they can do is vomit all down you." He winkled out that tired, but happy smile._

 _Zim paled at the sheer mention of 'vomit.' "Well, now that you've mentioned the disgusting secret weaponry it has...then I won't go anywhere near this vomit-spewing baby monster. Alone."_

" _Good. Thank you, Zim." He steered the old Irken away from the crib, and guided him out of the room with his Gir in tow as if his visiting hours had duly expired. "Now you go have fun and try not to get into too much trouble. That means no setting things on fire, or causing any imminent explosions. And if you upgrade that indoor security anymore, please, PLEASE make sure we can still leave the house if we want to!"_

" _You don't tell me what to do!" He turned, about to croak something else, when Dib had shut the door on him. He stood there awhile, just a little upset, staring at that closed door. Then the banging and sawing re-commenced._

 _-x-_

"It's just a phase they're going through, Gir. They'll be back to their normal smelly selves soon, pretty soon."

He got up, holding the hull for support with a hand as he winced. The blue from his PAK tube left a glowing shine on the dark ship's exterior, its azure heart warmed in pink circles.

He was a little slow seeing the long shadow growing on the floor. Before he could turn, arms went around him, fingers tickling his armpits. He helplessly broke into happy squeals. Being super ticklish sucked, but being partially deaf sucked even more. "I've made cannolis for a very special Irken! We can have them with some of your cookies and a cup of coffee!" It was Clara. She put an arm around him, and shepherded him from the garage. They were giving him so much attention. He really wasn't sure if he enjoyed it, or was finding it overwhelming.

She'd caught him mid-ramble too. He muttered and ranted to himself most days, so he supposed she took it all in her stride. "C-cannolas?" He croaked, the stutter creeping back.

"Don't tell me you haven't tried a cannoli before? And you need to change your clothes. You're not warm enough."

"Would you _please_ stop with your pestering? I don't want to be mollycoddled! Those human meat hormones of yours are making you crazy!"

"Are you worried about the baby?"

He lifted his chin. "I'm not worried about a smeet-thing exploding from you! Not at all!" He gave an unconvincing smile. "You mad creatures must suffer this affliction _all_ the time!"

"I'm not going anywhere. I promise." She drew him to her, as if she had seen right through his false self-assurances. His claws grabbed at her cardigan fleece as he snuggled into her embrace.

"Don't lie to me!" He said in a small voice.

"I wouldn't lie, Zim." She gave him an extra squeeze and let go. Looking white under the luminosity of the morning sunshine, he stood at parade rest, his expression holding that defensive bluntness, his fists clenched as if he was about ready to punch something. "Let's have a break. Later today, we're going out for my first scan. These are yours to wear!" She pulled something out of her frumpy cardigan pocket and gave the items to him. Zim inspected a wig and a pair of contacts.

 _Could you just...not have a baby_? He almost asked her. But she'd been so pleased with herself, so happy. It was hard not to notice this euphoria in her. But he mistrusted it. "And what is the purpose of this expedition?"

"It's to scan the baby inside me. This check up will determine how well its developing and its overall health. They'll use ultrasound, similar to what the professor used on your PAK to see inside."

They were all being incredibly _forward_ with everything _baby_. The damn larvae would take nine months to...what? Gestate? Then why the sudden rush? Of Dib suddenly slapping together a cage? Of Clara rushing to have ultrasound? It was like it was going to pop out of her today.

What would be left of her, once this creature was free, and covered in blood? It would be starving surely, having been trapped inside her for all those months?

The panic started to make him squeakily wheeze when next he reached for a breath.

"Zim. Zim it's okay." A warm wind had risen up, causing a sea of pink cherry blossoms to surge around the garden. As he clung to her again, feeling comforted when she ran a hand down his shoulder beside his PAK, he watched the petals fling around. The sunlight briefly paled; as a cloud had scooted over its shiny aura while the wind playfully whisked the blossoms around in pretty spirals, the leaves falling like pink snow. "You can trust me." She said. "Never forget that."

"I... I trust you." He smiled, knowing of the operation, of the metal she had removed from his spooch. Of how she had done something she hadn't been prepared to do, and saved him. He had been at his most vulnerable, twice, under her watch.

Then he hugged her again.

Happiness.

Was this what it was?

-x-

Dib whammed his fist into the mailbox, too eager to take them out in an orderly, civilized way. Two were the usual gas and water bills, and one was a monthly subscription catalogue called; 'Studies into the Supernatural the 22nd edition.' A small medical booklet on seizures had arrived, and there was another bigger booklet on 'A woman's first pregnancy,' which he added to the pile. Finally, right at the back was the envelope he'd been dreading. He reached in and tore it open with barely any patience. His heart was beating like a drum, and his mouth was dry. He hated the resultant hot and cold rush of panic: he'd had more than his fair share of it all this year.

Once it was open he read the bottom paragraph in a flustered hurry. Clara opened the front door, calling for him. He stashed the letter in his back pocket, keeping the rest of the mail gripped in cold fingers. "Coming, coming." Entering the hallway he put the mail on the cabinet.

"Dib?" Clara began as she was putting her compact in her handbag.

"Hmm?"

"I haven't seen you touch a cigarette lately."

"Oh yeah, that." He scratched the back of his head. "I've quit."

"You've quit?"

"Yeah!" He gave a pasty smile. "See this? It does wonders!" He lifted the sleeve of his jacket to reveal the lime green nicotine patch.

"Thank goodness! I was beginning to think you'd really struggle! Anything good in the mail?"

"Just some informational books I ordered and the usual bills. And where's our delinquent family member? Ah, right on time!"

Zim was working one eye lens in as he entered the hallway, looking begrudgingly unhappy as if this little excursion included a tour of hell. It was actually rather strange to see those bright inquisitive eyes of fuchsia be covered up. Once they were both in place, Zim blinked, the eyes welling up behind the new contacts.

As if Clara was carefully fitting a crown over his head, the wig was eased over his antennae, and she adjusted it carefully so as not to irritate the shredded left. "I can't hear a thing now." Zim bleated bitterly, screwing up his face in anguish. "I don't want to go. I want to stay here!"

Dib was grabbing the car keys. "It won't be for long, space jerk."

He was not very good at reading lips either, so he carried on. "Just let the smeet child out now! This is such a waste of my time!"

They were ignoring him. They were far too busy fussing with their coats and shoes and it was taking far longer than it should just to get dressed. It amused him sometimes, and galvanised him other times. But they were _his_ now, and he had to make-do with their baffling and tedious behaviour.

Dib started unlocking the locks, which took awhile because there was so many of them. He had to press certain buttons now too, and pull down on a lever before he could even turn the handle. Even though he had only gone out for the mail a minute ago, upon shutting the door, it automatically initiated its own lock-down effect which Zim was mightily pleased with.

Clara offered Zim his pink coat. Though it was sunny and warm outside, the Irken had no insulation other than the clothes he wore. Even when bundled in bed between them, he was still wrapped to the nines as if it was the midst of January. He accepted the coat, and wore it over Dib's old blue shirt.

"Everybody ready?" Clara was asking while his head was whirling with nervousness: and of going through the door he'd spent all his energies keeping locked and fastened against the frightening world. He was determined to be prepared and _look_ prepared, but when the door was opened he whisked behind Dib, claws wrapping around his leg.

Dib started walking. Zim clung to his leg like a monkey clinging to a branch.

The sunlight highlighted them in a momentary flash of gold. The air smelt of diesel fumes, and the honeyed, sweet smell of flowers and trees blossoming. The clouds were calm and white, with no sign of rain.

"Zim, we're not going all the way there with you hanging onto Dib like that." Clara unwrapped his little pale claws from Dib's leg.

"No, no!"

Dib was freed to walk to the car, and he opened the back passenger door for them.

"Gir!" Zim was suddenly yelling. "I f-f-forgot Gir!"

"Oh honey, really?" Clara popped him onto the seat. "You wait here, I'll go get him."

"He's good practise for the real thing." Dib teased as she hurried back to the house. Then he sat on the driver's seat and adjusted the rear-view mirror. "You okay in the back there, space monster?"

"What?" To which Zim shouted back.

"How about I make a hearing aid for you?"

Another: "What?"

Clara returned with the doll as she sidled in next to him. As he clutched the Gir desperately, she freed up his right hand and slipped a warm grey glove on, a glove specially made for his three fingers. Then she repeated the action with his left. Now hopefully his hands wouldn't get so icy cold.

As Dib drove, a wave of cherry blossom flowers flaked across the windows, and Zim watched the pink squall for a moment, dazed by it. Without a cushion to sit on he couldn't see much outside save for the sky, but for that he was grateful. He really didn't want to see the besiegement of humanity. He tried to shelve his fear, but it kept gaining on him: a missile he couldn't outrun, and he involuntarily whimpered. It just leapt out of his throat and his pale cheeks flushed with shame.

Clara pulled him closer, and he willingly snuggled against her. The longer the car journey went on for, the more he gradually settled. So he slipped his electronic tablet out of his coat pocket, and went back to business.

The car stopped some time later, and that heady flush of fear rose up in his chest as if it had never truly left.

Dib got out, leaving the car door open. Zim peered out into the golden sunshine. He saw the clinic that was barely forty feet away. It was a squat building, adorned in a thick green splatter of ivy. It had big rectangular windows that let in plenty of daylight, and across its walls were posters of humans with toothy smiley faces.

"You wanna stay here all day, Zim?" Dib mocked, not wanting to give him any time to root to the spot in paralytic panic.

He would have raised his right whitish tipped antenna at the jape, but the wig prevented it from moving. "When do we go home?" He asked that was half a moan and half a demand. Clara just chuckled. She had her handbag slung over one shoulder and didn't seem all nervous as she stood outside on the gravel.

"We just got here!" Dib shook his head at him, a gesture Zim disliked. "You've got your disguise on!"

The alien gave him a sneering look, arms crossed like a stubborn little child. Hard to believe he was an otherworldly soldier near two centuries old, because he certainly didn't act like it most of the time.

"All this to see a grub." He murmured angrily, sliding down the seat and planting shaky feet on the tarmac, the Gir doll held in a death grip. The vulnerability of having no defences was gut-wrenching, and he was soon unable to take another step. This was what he got for not taking a plasma rifle with him.

"Don't tell me you're freezing up before we've even got in." Dib lifted him up into his arms so that Zim could view the world from over his shoulder.

"I don't need to be carried by the likes of you!"

"You've basically become luggage, Zim. You've got this perfectly good blue handle."

"Don't you dare, inferior meat brain!"

"So long as you don't tempt me!"

This brief swap of teasing was the perfect medicine for Zim's chronic tension, and before he realized it, he was being carried into the clinic. There was a male receptionist who took Clara's name and address, and told her to walk straight through a numbered door. Dib followed her, with Zim looking every which way for danger.

There weren't many patients waiting. It was a quiet part of the day, and a lot of the seats stood vacant. But there were three young children running amok who were perhaps five or six year olds, but to Zim they could be several days old for all he knew. He watched them tear about the waiting room, and two of these wildings were throwing a bright red ball around. They were screaming and jumping around like things gone rabid.

He wasn't looking forward to having one of _those_ in the house. It would tear his computer systems apart, and knock things over... like, well, Gir... in a way.

Keeping himself tense and ready, but contradicting this attitude by pressing himself as closely and as tightly to Dib as he possibly could as a means to turn invisible, he was carried through to the doctor's room. It was unexpectedly quiet, calm, and warm. A young female doctor who was in the middle of arranging a bouquet of flowers on her desk turned to give them a fulsome smile.

Dib abruptly put Zim down, who squeaked in surprised anger. This was NOT part of the deal! His human minion was failing him!

"Dr. Sandy! Afternoon!"

"Clara? Clara Vernon? Yes of course! And hello Mr. Membrane! Good to see you! You're looking well!"

"Thank you!"

"And who's this?" The doctor asked, nodding towards their green accomplice.

That's it. He freaked, his lilac coated eyes staring wide at the doctor, knowing his time had come, and that, any second now he'd be rammed into a cage and shipped off to some underground government facility to be cut open like a thanksgiving turkey.

"This is my adopted little boy Zim. He'll be 12 this year."

"Yes. Hello. I am normal." He said on automatic, his eyes darting to and fro. Dib took his hand to still him from exploding into a panic, or running for the door like a spooked deer after hearing gunshot.

Dr. Sandy knelt down a moment, looking deceitfully friendly. "I bet you're excited to have a new sibling some day!"

 _No, not really. I'd rather wish this whole charade was just one BIG nightmare!_

"I'm so sorry! He's really shy." Clara apologized.

"Aren't they sweet when they're like that?"

"If only you knew the half of it." Dib chimed in.

The doctor asked Clara to lie on a surgical table after she'd removed her cardigan, showing just her bra, and then the doctor began to wash her hands, and put on gloves, and get some device, and Zim ran to the fray, screaming croakily. "No! No! Don't cut Clara open! Scoop it out some other way! No! I won't let you!"

"Zim! ZIM!" Dib grabbed him as firmly as he could without being too rough, and pulled him back over, but the doctor was looking at the green child, stunned. "Zim, it's okay! The doctor's _not_ going to cut her anywhere! She's just going to put some gel on her, and use an ultrasound device to look inside!"

The former Elite looked absolutely mortified. His sunken eyes kept glancing over at Clara as if to check that she was still intact.

"He's right, honey." Clara was sitting up on the surgical table, looking over at him appealingly. "It's non-invasive."

There was the flash of surgical tools here and there, and Zim was not blind to the presence of them. He was tempted to hold firm his argument, and not let them sway his beliefs, but how could he trust them, when he hardly understood what was going on? His shivering came back from deep within. There was no controlling it.

"Clara's gonna die..." He started to openly sob.

"Oh Zim. She won't. I promise." Dib scooped his littleness into his arms, feeling those sobs come on thick and fast. "Mothers do this all the time. It's natural for us humans." He said, before realizing what he'd said. He was so used to talking to Zim on their own frequency that he had quite forgotten he was in public now, and that he had to be more cautious with his words.

"I can take him out the room, and give him a lollipop." Dr. Sandy offered. Luckily she seemed innocently unaware. Despite his strange green skin, she was still seeing him as a young, naive child who was struggling to cope with his foster mother having another child. She was probably used to seeing them have mini tantrums when their moms came in for these scans.

"He'll calm down." He said just as Zim broke into another squeaky wave of tears.

New hands were coaxing him away from Dib. He looked up out of bleary eyes to see that it was Clara. Hand squeezing his, she led him back to the surgical table. "Stay with me, and then nothing can happen, Zim. You'll protect me."

This produced a watery smile from him, and he stood at attention, by the bed, hand closed over hers in a death grip.

With tears still trailing down his cheeks, he watched the doctor perform the routine ministrations. Dib, equally fascinated, stood very closely as well, watching with interest as if this was all very new to him too. Zim was quite surprised. How could he, a human, not know of this procedure as well as he let on? Maybe this was his first baby monster? How then, could he promise anything as if was also in the dark about it?

"I am sorry but this is going to feel rather cold." The doctor warned as she pasted almost greyish wet gel all along Clara's pale abdomen. Then Dr. Sandy moved a device along her belly and on the computer screen came the resulting feedback of what the ultrasound was picking up. Dib was squinting, as was Zim. What on Irk were they trying to see? Red eyes? A flash of stealthy movement?

The silence seemed to stretch on, and Zim was baffled. The screen just showed a lot of silvery fuzz and a lot of inky blackness that swished around like a dark sea under a dark moon.

"There you are!" Dr. Sandy suddenly resounded, causing the boys to startle, "There's the heartbeat! And this shadow here? That's the head, and here, the feet!" She was pointing to various blobs on the screen with her free hand.

Zim was sure she was making it up. He couldn't see anything like that, just blobs of indiscernible shapes that gently swished back and forth, like water.

Dib had his mouth open in dumb surprise. The Irken was sure he couldn't make heads or tails of it either.

-x-

"You boys are so clueless!" Clara was saying as she left the clinic. She kept turning round to them, and every time she saw their dumbfounded expressions, she broke into another dismayed smile. "I didn't know what else to do, but sit there!"

"I didn't know Zim would have a mini meltdown in the middle of the thing!" Dib said.

She gazed at the picture again: the ultrasound photo the doctor had given her after the session. She held it with reverent admiration as if it showed the spectacles of the universe. The blob was having witchy powers over her already. "It's... wonderful." She exclaimed, as she had already said, again and again since acquiring the picture. "And the baby's development is going well! Really well!"

"I kinda wanted to know if it would be a boy or a girl." Her fiancé looked a little aggrieved. Dr. Sandy had given them the choice, and Clara had flatly declined to know. The remarkable advances in science obviously didn't interest her in the same way it did him.

Being bullied by the wind, Zim walked alongside, occasionally having to pat his wig down with his hand before it blew off. They were walking across a moving carpet of pink petals as they approached the car.

"Well Zim. Your new baby niece or nephew is a blob. Congrats."

"But it'll...grow...right?" The Irken asked as if it was the most terrifying thing ever.

"Yup. The next time Clara has a scan in another six weeks, it'll be bigger."

"Bigger?" He cried in clear horror.

"Ah huh."

-x-

Later, Clara was setting the table. The sky's ethereal azure calm was fading into deepening pinks and purples, and the once airy clouds had turned into slates of stone. A cool breeze had stolen into the garden, yet an eerie alien glow in the gloom remained: a purple light was glowing from the open entrance of the garage as if the busy bug had a Norse Forge brewing in there.

Inside the house it was stuffy with cooking smells, but the good kind of cooking smells and the kitchen was toasty warm. Dib tipped back the wine from the glass. "Better go get that Zim or he'll work until he passes out."

"We need to tell him." She said as she brought a hot plate out of the oven. It was sizzling with chicken.

"About what?"

"The wedding!"

He grimaced, looking around the immediate area a moment as if to see if they really were alone. "He's like a walking bottle of nitroglycerine. Poke him around too much and he'll blow."

"He'll enjoy it once he realizes no one's going to harm him. He doesn't know he's best man yet, does he?"

"But we've been passing him off as our adopted fucking kid! How will that work?"

"Just get your sister to look after him then."

"Yeah. I'd like to see that."

"Then your father!"

He sighed in exasperation.

-x-

With his trusty electronic tablet beside him, Zim lay on the grass, watching the inky blue of the afternoon darken into rosy colours that had underlining hues of gold and purples. Shadows stretched, long and tall, and barely a wind cooled the mood. The Earth had these strange changes, of which he had to admit were beautiful. Time hustled the seasons, the length of daylight, and the passage of weather. The roses he kept watered. He was getting better at using _bad_ water, water that hadn't been sterilized. He just had to keep his distance with the watering can, use gloves, and concentrate. That way he was less likely to splash himself. Of course there was always the musty old apron he could wear to lessen the risk of splashing himself and it had been fitted to his size, but it smelt funny.

He wanted to grow purple roses, but Clara had said that purple roses didn't exist.

Zim watched the clouds sombrely make their way west, his foot tapping up and down as it rested across his knee.

His eyes lowered.

The ship was too much for him. If he had more time, more vitality, he could easily fix what needed fixing, and have the ship doing its practise flights in a day.

He could barely stomach the thought of asking Dib for help. It was still so _hard_. It shouldn't be, it really shouldn't, but asking for help meant that he had failed to do it by himself, and an Irken's pride was everything.

He'd meant it as a surprise.

But that wasn't likely.

Gir was sitting slightly lopsided on the grass smiling his silly smile. "You're right, Gir." He croaked. "I just wanted to do the Dib monkey a favour. How else am I to thank his meddlesome meddling?" He looked back up at the sky. "I think he's scared of it." He gave a small chuckle. "It couldn't have been _that_ bad."

His memory wasn't the most reliable thing these days, it never had been, but certain things he did remember. It had brought him much amusement after all. At the time, anyway. When Dib had landed, it was his father who came out into the garden and found him. When all was quiet and dark, Zim had emerged from the foliage and turned off the emergency warning system. He had been somewhat pleased at the time, and happy in a spiteful way that the ship had scared Dib so badly. But he felt a certain misery too, of his one and true nemesis failing at something he had been _so_ proud of.

The stars were starting to emerge, secretively and softly, winking in their cryptic fashion as the weight of the cosmos wheeled above him.

He sat up, looking around. The back porch and kitchen was all lit up, and Clara was arranging the table, something she spent ages doing.

Dragging his left leg towards his body, he tried to stand up. It was a jerky initiation, and everything tingled.

He broke into a coughing fit which seemed to echo across the garden. "Wait for me, Gir. I'll be right back." Taking the tablet with him, he wobbled his way on weak legs towards the garage.

The pulsing deep purple cable, as thick as his PAK, bled bright, and beat like a living heart. It slunk around the stern to the engines, engines which had to be checked for leaks.

He was trying very hard to keep all his mishaps and accidents self-contained, with nothing alerting the humans of his failings. The thing was, he kept making mistakes. He lost track of time, lost track of current objectives and fuel gauges, and was usually seconds away from disaster once he realized he'd left something running or charging. His vigilance kept leaking, he kept floundering on the wrong problems, and Tak's defensive measures were hard to disable. She had installed super high security against hackers, and even Zim was finding it arduous to overcome.

He stepped over the flashing purple cable, nearly falling on it when he misplaced his balance and found the goggles he'd left on the floor. He also picked up his handheld propane torch, one hand trained on a valve as a plume of blue flame pedantically guided up a line of metal, sealing it closed. He couldn't be bothered with a blowtorch mask. The goggles sufficed.

At least the damage under the ship's girth was steadily and nicely being stitched back up, once Zim had stuffed the intestines back in her again. But once he'd started pumping her up with plasma fuel, a tiny leak had started, and then began to pool, like blood haemorrhaging.

A spark of blue budded at the stern, and Zim, still wearing the goggles, cut off the flame on his propane torch and stepped back just as the force field blared outwards in a rush of whitish blue swirling arcs that hugged the damaged rear-end of the craft. He could feel the electrical energy of it purr at his exposed skin from the aura alone. The blue of his sleeves fluttered from its magnetic pull. One of the many external nodules must have overheated, for something snapped, and the shielding flared a second time, sending snakes of dangerous bright purple across the garage walls and ceiling. Zim threw down the propane torch and smacked his hand against the emergency power lever. The ship, robbed of its umbilicus power, promptly died, and the energy thrummed with it, dropping down in octaves. Zim waited in the dark, hoping another fire wouldn't spark. Only then did he breathe and throw the goggles off his head, standing in his own soft and pulsing aura of blue and pink.

"Yeah. That didn't work."

Okay, he had been the one to rip open the fuselage channels that gave the ship her balance, sure, yeah, okay, but something had blown in the rear compartment, causing a self-contained fire long ago. The oxygen tanks had probably imploded or something when that foolish stink beast had hit the asteroid. Did that boy ever look where he was going?

He needed to breathe. Needed to get out of these fumes and sit down awhile until his head stopped spinning.

As he tiredly walked out of the garage, he was only too glad to straighten out his back. His body wasn't as ductile as it used to be, and the aches and stiffness should have reminded him aplenty that he had to go slower, and go easier on himself, but he could not slide out the program as easily as all that.

Thinking he was all alone, he doubly surprised to see Dib leaning against the wall around the side of the house in the dark and quiet. His bright eyes picked out the cigarette immediately.

"You!" Zim snapped. The human yelled in surprise, and dropped the cigarette. "You're still huffing and puffing those infernal smelly sticks?"

"No!" He weakly protested, before his eyes landed on the Irken's angry stare. "Yes, okay! But it was just the one!"

"Your excuses are pitiful! You quit RIGHT this instant!" Not wanting to argue with a surly Irken, he watched as Zim did the honours of stamping on the cigarette with the heel of his loafer. "Now." He opened out his claw. "Give me the packet!"

"What? No! I just bought it!"

"Don't you disobey me, fuckhead! Hand it over!"

Dib groaned. He reached into his left jacket pocket, and produced the new packet of Marlboro cigarettes, along with the lighter. Zim swiped them from his hand, his mouth all teeth.

"That's better!" The Irken said as if _he_ was the one in charge and Dib was just the unfortunate guest. "You should never have let these things possess you Dib! Put a carrot between your lips. I'm sure it'll work just as well." Then he stamped on the Marlboro packet the same way he did the cigarette. The lighter he tossed as hard as he could over the fence. Then he rubbed his hands together. "All done. And if I ever see you smoking another one of those THINGS again, I am going to do something really _really_ h-horrible."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, but it would be horrible."

Dib sighed; disheartened. "Just, please, don't tell Clara. It was just the one. These nicotine patches, they're really not that good."

"I'm no snitch." Zim said, "But I want no more stupidity. It's bad for you."

"It's just..."

"Yes?" He asked impatiently.

Dib gave another sigh. "I've got some things I need to tell you."

Zim angled his right antenna his way, suspecting. "Then OUT with it!"

"Gods, where do I even start?" He ran a hand through his limp hair. It made his scythe wilt a little.

Zim's face fell. What was this about? It wasn't over the fuselage leak in the garage was it? He had cleaned that up yesterday. And he had added that struyum instrument to the radio to hear if any nearby ships were in range as they passed through this side of the solar system. It wasn't his fault it couldn't pick up human radio broadcasts anymore. Still, he couldn't help but feel like he was in trouble.

"There's always some drama with you!" He squeaked when Dib was still hesitating.

"Zim. We've got a lot planned. We're busy bees, like you."

He frowned, one wine coloured orb melting into a narrowed point, the other wide and unblinking. "Is this to do with the ship?"

"No!" It came out harsher than he intended. "No, Zim! You've got to stop 'repairing' that stupid ship, okay! It's dangerous! And I want no part of it! I wish I hadn't shown it to you! I wish I hadn't kept it!"

"Wait? What?" He asked in a small, surprised voice.

"Zim. "He said frostily. "I'm getting married to Clara."

"Mar – rid?" The soft pink pupils in his eyes cartoonishly widened as if he had just been pushed into a river.

"It's when two people love each other, and want to spend the rest of their lives together."

"But you're already together."A crease appeared between his eyes.

"I _know_ that, but getting married is a legal binding that'll go on record. It's a religious ceremony that's done in the eyes of god."

Now Zim was totally lost. Humans had the most peculiar customs. Dib tried to elaborate a little more, saying absurd things like the baby having two 'real' parents: that they'd morph into one name and that it'll be finically easier.

Finally he settled a hand on his bony shoulder. "We want you to be our best man at the wedding."

"Best...man?" Well, he was _the_ best. He could understand martial ceremonies. But when Dib started listing off churches and priests he really began to sweat. The complications of this unborn baby were causing a lot of problems for him. Clara and Dib had been normal enough to cope with, but now they were going _totally_ crazy.

"Clara and I will exchange vows. You can make a speech if you like."

"Speech?"

"Yeah. You can say how much you love to hate us!"

"Will...other humans be there?" This was all so sudden, and they had utterly blindsided him with this news just because of this _one_ baby.

"It'll be close family and friends, so there's no reason to worry. You'll be wearing your disguise, and we'll get you a tuxedo fitted." He put his hands in his pockets and kicked a little stone out in front of him. He hated trying to explain these things to Zim, and he was always left with it. So he started to walk. As if he could walk away from the pain of Zim's confusion. But the little Irken followed, keeping perfectly in step with him.

"Can I maybe not go?" He asked, honestly perplexed. His right antenna did a cute little ascent when his confusion spiked.

"That's another thing I gotta mention, Fudge. You can't be left on your own."

"And WHY not? I'm the adult here!"

"You... you have seizures." Dib stopped suddenly, standing outside the garage's entrance.

"Liar!" He crowed, bristling, his teeth snapping together, "I do NOT! Whatever _that_ is! But you can't fool me stink beast! You can't! You're just trying to trick me!"

"Zim..." He watched the small Irken's face draw in a little by the advent of what he'd said, his shoulders bunching up.

As if curtailing his displeasure as easily as closing doors on anything he didn't like, he scowled and started rambling tautly about the ship. He flourished an arm at the garage. "The electromagnetic drivers need work, and the engines need delicate calibration adjustments. It's REALLY irritating. The ship's stabilizers are satisfactory, but they could do with some adjustments too, and the primary core needs charging _."_

 _Okay. Here it comes._

He stood beside the ship, looking frail and humble suddenly, or was it just the bewitching light of the evening that was deepening those hollows under his eyes? "Dib. I... I want you to h-h-hel...HELP me with it."

There. It was out. He'd said it.

It was a relief. Holding it inside all day hadn't done him many favours.

"What?" Dib's voice got dark all of a sudden. "This isn't about this old heap of junk! This is about me and my future with Clara! I don't have time to gallivant into the stars anymore! I'm going to be a dad!" His admission spearheaded Zim's disappointed surprise into something else entirely.

"You're... you're scared of it!" He had to say it. This kind of pretence could not go on. He would not allow it.

"Am not!"

"Yes you _are_!" Zim knew he was pressing buttons with him, it was nothing new, and he pressed them harder, wanting the truth of it. He no longer had the time to be coy, or hesitant. "What's become of you? You're deluded, and crazy and big-headed, but this is a ship! What happened to your passion? You LOVED stealing my tech! Now here it is! What's wrong with you?"

"There is nothing wrong with me!"

He jumped up onto a little stool and snapped down the emergency lever to show Dib that the ship was not scary, even in all her bright red and black and purple glory. She shuddered with the transition of energy, and her rearward engines exploded into a comely purple glow, but Dib shied back, looking painfully stricken.

"You can't even look at this ship without going all milky!" Zim cried above the cackle and arch of electricity.

"That's not true!"

"Liar!"

"I am not a liar!"

"Who needs you anyway? You go and do your HUMAN things! So go and do them!"

"Zim, turn it off!"

" _I_ rescued you! It was ME you dumb meatbag!"

Dib's eyes widened, and his lips parted. Remarkably, he paled. He went as white as a sheet, and Zim knew why. It was before the day of the wire. When Dib had decided enough was enough between them. "What? And you never...? Look, just turn it OFF!"

"No!"

"I SAID TURN IT OFF!"

"NO!"

A lick of purple voltage arched up the wall: biting Zim's hand. He shrieked out, letting go of the emergency power lever. Something overly bright burst in the rearward engines, and the explosion was so great that it pushed Dib clear off his feet. Purple electricity blazed within the garage in long burning curves and lightning flashes – wild plasma energy was zipping to and fro in and around the ship. It struck the ship's chassis. Power cables snapped and danced like angry cobras. Dib sat up, dazed, the back of his head muddy with blood. Zim lay sprawled on the floor inches below the arc of purple, his face pale with fright.

Dib scrabbled to his feet and almost ran into a bolt of purple electric that snapped upwards to meet him. The sparking hues of mauve were sensuous and terrible in their beauty. The cable zapped around like an animal, aggressively discharging silver and purple wherever it happened to point. He knew it to be certain death if he touched it.

He made a run for the lever, ducking just in time as something sparked over him. Fingers grappling the slim metal, he pushed down. Power was severed immediately, and the ship went dark. The arcs of electric plasma also disappeared, dulling the garage into an unordinary quiet, but the afterimages of them remained in Dib's retina like inverted lightning flashes.

"Zim?" He was breathing hard - the adrenaline was spiking through his system. He found him in the dark, and sat him up. "Are you okay? Tell me!"

"I'm... fine..." He said in guilty submission.

"You... you idiot! Didn't you stop to think about checking the power level? For god's sake! That could have got us both killed!"

Zim looked away, tears cascading down his cheeks. "I didn't do anything wrong! It was the power cables or the security system..."

Dib ignored him. He could feel something wet sliding down the back of his head. "My dad told me to trust in you a little. I guess you've both proved me wrong." He was trembling. "Zim." It sounded like he was chewing out his words. "Get back to the house. Now!"

This seemed to shake Zim from his daze, and he laid eyes of hurt confusion at his human. But the boy he knew and loved had transformed into an angry adult; his eyes the cold eyes of a stranger.

In his wild and younger days, he would have challenged Dib's authority with a brave and unyielding arsenal, but all he could do was climb weakly to his feet. He felt Dib's eyes bore into him as he proceeded out the garage door and down the garden path. Tears kept rushing persistently down his cheeks.

It wasn't his fault! He hadn't meant to put Dib in any danger.

 _Wasn't my fault. Wasn't my fault!_

 _I'm an Elite! The best there is!_

 _There was a fault in the power cables! A damaged engine that went unchecked! A defective component somewhere! It wasn't me!_

As if his head was wrapped in a blindfold, he meandered almost drunkenly through the kitchen, and even though Clara was there, calling him, he neither heard nor saw her.

He might as well have been walking on a conveyor belt, for he felt no transition – no feeling of motion at all.

"Fuck fuck!" He started up the stairs, fists clenched: claws breaking through the skin of his palms.

He was up there, standing tall, head cocked, teeth shining in that gossamer grin. He was shrouded in black, except for the eyes and teeth: they bled a terrible pink. "What is an Irken Elite doing, running from his masters? Look at how soft and weak they've made you."

Zim paused near the top of the stairs, barely having the courage to look up.

"Remember how impressive you were? How feared you were?" He took a step forwards. "Where is that black spite that drove you?"

Zim went to move back, and he almost swung off balance as he tried to seek the step beneath his foot.

"You were perfection. Now you're as imperfect as they come. Such a waste."

Zim let that sink in only for a moment before his will to live kicked in like some hidden overdrive. "This is MY home now! So go away! Shoo! You're not real!"

The dark Irken laughed, high and shrill, but then it ended in a thunderous growl. "No more real than you. I told you what you'd become. And that they'd forever suspect you. Never trust you. After all, what is freedom, when you're in a cage?" Black PAK legs sprung out like the bony membranes of a dragon's wings. Zim tipped back as those eyes smiled back in callous disdain.

There was a chasm behind him. The Tallest had pushed him into it too, as they did to all Irkens who were found wanting.

He bounced down the stairs, locked in that same daze Dib had left in him, and when he hit the bottom he felt the awful crack before his antenna could register it.

He lay there, seeing stars.

The ceiling twirled in a slow sickening spin, and he swore he was sinking, even though the floor was plenty solid.

It was okay. He couldn't feel anything - just the blunt shock from the impact.

There was Clara, running over to him. He had probably thumped down the stairs like a rattling thing; some parts metal, other parts not so much.

That was when the pain began, small and warm, as if he had a million bees jostling for space inside. Then they started to sting. And he started to scream.

-x-

"Ya'll hear that?"

"Hear what?" Roger sat up from his leisurely slouch, but only by about two degrees. His eyes were big and droopy from staring at the computer screen for so long. A pair of mammoth red headphones rested around his neck like some monstrous necklace.

"The news." Gary said as he sipped on his coffee.

"What news?"

"Dib Membrane. Clifford let him go. Took much sick leave."

"That's a shame. He worked really hard."

"He was a pain in the ass." Nobody liked his opinion much these days. Dib was the reason he'd been demoted after all, and was left with the shitty jobs, the jobs no one else wanted. They also treated him like the villagers had treated the boy who'd cried wolf too many times.

"Guess we won't be invited then." Roger muttered as he looked back at his screen.

"Invited to what?" He asked, staring at him over the rim of his mug.

"The wedding. Remember Clara? He's marrying her. It was on his blog the other day. I haven't got the invite yet, and I doubt I'll be getting one now. He never took me out to drinks anyway."

"A wedding?" He rubbed at the stubble on his chin. At first this new delivery of information was disappointing. Weddings were done at public places, with lots and lots of people. He wouldn't be able to get close. But then he began to realize how perfect the opportunity was. It was a public place; he could go where he wanted and the likelihood of anyone noticing him was low. People would be too busy celebrating, having fun, keeping their eyes on the wedded couple. He doubted the alien would make an appearance, but he could go there, get whatever information anyone was willing to spill, and then he'd follow them, all the way home.

* * *

 **Dib07:** Thank you for all your love and support!


	8. Tinfoil

**Saving Zim: Epilogue by Dib07**

 ** _Summary:_**

 _Zim is wary of 'happiness' and life without missions, orders and dictatorship, and as he is coming to terms with his new family, he's confused as to what purpose he must serve. An Irken Threat determines his existence, including all of Irkenkind, with the Enemy tempting him with the chance to regain Gir. Drifting far beyond the edge, everything becomes uncertain on the other side._

 _ **Disclaimer:**_

 _I do not own the IZ characters. However this story and this idea is mine._

 _Cover art beautifully made by_ _Truekrisstianity!_ _All credit goes to her,_ _please do not use without his permission, thank you :)_

 ** _Warnings:_**

 _Character death. Character angst. Light swearing. Gary (hunched in the shadows)._

* * *

 **Dib07:** I can hardly believe I am here, updating this! I was conflicted about it – but I realized I was holding myself back – and that I was disregarding my readers. Someone very special reminded me that it's those who love the story who count, and that I should do it for them. I just hope I haven't realized too late. I also hope you enjoy this latest entry!

Thank you for the love, support and reviews! It helped recover my confidence more than I thought possible. You have saved the show. This story would not have continued without you.

I would like to thank **Piratemonkies64, HaleyRiler, VelociraptorLove** and I also thank **Singing Introvert** for really cute fan art of Saving Zim's Chapter 39 Homecoming which I love! I also would like to thank **Randomdragon2.0** for the wonderful fan art she did of Zim holding his Gir doll! (I am still melting!) **Alicartin/Katrinci** , thank you for the awesome fan art and AWESOME animation – the animation inspired by the Fudgekin Oneshot, and the fan art on Saving Zim! I still can't get over it, and it was the perfect wakeup call for me to send this update out, as what you did inspired me to the fullest - and it reminded me to enjoy what I love. Thank you again!

* * *

 **CHAPTER 8: Tinfoil**

 _'Echoes of the shots ring out_  
 _We may be the first to fall_  
 _Everything could stay the same or we could change it all'_

 _Battlefield - Svrcina_

 _x_

 _It's just battle fatigue._ He thought, even though his personal battle regime had involved little more than pressing a few buttons and shouting orders. Rather, it was _battle management_ that was wearing him thin. He hadn't been in such a delicate scenario before, hadn't tasted an insurgence quite like this before. Red and his fellow peer had never been fully tested. The enemy had always been likened to that of soft dough: a bit of force and they always fell flat.

More than half of their unconquerable Armada was now floating through the vacuum as chunks and bits of debris.

The hull on the Massive's portside had been breached. Even though her side had been successfully sealed with temporary sealant, they had lost oxygen. The airlock on that side had been blown off, and there was no way to re-pressurize that section until she was docked for repairs.

The Kerian side of things looked good. They were regrouping, and not just that, they were _amassing_. A splinter group of Irken battle cruisers had swooped into the enemy's rear to test their mettle, and the Kerian had blown them into the next world. All that was left of the officers Kastor, Slath and their team was a furling flash of purple and crimson. Even the planet Baleron's infinite black coat had shone for a moment in the height of the explosion. Then the multicoloured fire tapered outwards for miles and miles like a plasma sea, looking ridiculously beautiful for all of its destruction.

To kindly reciprocate them, the black enemy warships approached like clouds of thunder. Red had screamed at his underlings until his voice had gone hoarse.

 _This is impossible!_

 _Nothing thwarts the Armada!_

 _No one else has the numbers, the technology, the_ _ **superiority!**_

And what did they even LOOK like? Red just knew them from their grisly dark and sleek ships, and the swiftness of their murderous talents.

The Massive had to take the brunt of the skirmish, laying heavy laser fire on the incoming V-formation of the Kerian. It broke them up, but they quickly snapped back together into a pincer movement, attacking the lesser ships on the port and starboard side of their flagship. The Irken battle cruisers carried tons of lethal plasma and nuclear fuels, so when they exploded, they _really_ exploded. The _Burgundy:_ captained by Fletch, had taken out half of the Massive's portside hull when his ship went super nova.

Dread filled Red's midsection.

The Master Control Brain, waaay back on Irk, had heard his plea, and sent reinforcements. A sea of Irken might came to the rescue, and Tallest Purple was throwing his arms up and down in childish excitement. The Master Control Brain had not stinted. Fleas had to be CRUSHED: all opposition terminated before they could further mock the might of the Armada. The show had gone on long enough, and the Master Control Brain wanted this charade over. If ANY competitor heard of this farce, the Irken militia's ferocity and pride would be blackened. That could not happen. And Red knew he would be brought to a hearing for this, his conduct questioned, his command under scrutiny.

He could not fuck up. Their necks were on the line.

The Control Brains could pick new Tallest better suited to lead their military.

With a legion behind him, Red and Purple had gone to war.

The cataclysm that shortly followed flashed heavily in his eyes, even now, during a period of tense silence.

The black dark of space had become a flurry of many colours as trading lasers of differing hues and whites shot back and forth. Huge ships performed majestic feats of dexterity, their commanders knowing how to handle their vessel under the immense labours of stress and battle. No one could say they did not fight bravely. And they smacked into the horde with a certain sort of dumb courage. But when they engaged, desperation gripped the Irken fleet, and with it, fear seldom felt.

The Kerian fought as aggressively as they, manoeuvring their ships as nimbly as any Irken pilot. Their rear engines trailed with fine crimson plasma, leaving lines of blood in their wake. Ships capsized on both fronts. Neighbouring detonations from dying ships hurt or destroyed allied ships.

This furious ballad was a firework serenade of epic scale against the backdrop of the cosmos: ships of midnight becoming pale icy blue novas. Ships balling up into purple flame as they barrelled desperately through the black; often being chased by ships gelded in blood. Red and Purple stood like immovable statues on the bridge as they watched the desperate serenade play out. _They_ had become the resistance, a resistance that was being picked off.

Purple would flinch and cry out every time a ship they were invested in blew up. It was hard to keep track: hard to see if they were pushing forwards, or scurrying back. So when Red made the observation to Purple that some of their ships seemed to be exploding for no reason, his concerns were not heard.

"No, no, no..." Purple murmured, looking from one hopeless scenario to the next.

 _Supremacy,_ their newest and largest modern-tech warship flew prodigiously below their huge mainscreen as it headed towards the main battle. When its glavatron canons fired, even the deck of their Massive thrummed in response to its angry thunder.

"We'll win, right?" Purple asked as he turned to his cohort. "We always win!"

 _Supremacy_ did her job. The Keri wheeled away, leaving behind blazing ships in the midst of the struggle. The flashing fights of the battle sparked on and off in Red's eyes, and his claws gripped the console in the fear that he'd be thrown again. The huge glavatron warship had worried the Kerian, and this time they retreated, falling back behind Baleron yet again. But as Red watched, his heart sunk lower than his spooch when he saw an ominous red and black tide as far as the eye could see - stretching across the nebular. They were swarming together once more with the vortians, the hornets had their allies after all, and they had come to face the Irken threat, united.

They knew not what to call them, or what their enemies' faces looked like. The Control Brains called them the Kerian – the Judges - for reasons unknown. Perhaps their collective library of knowledge had scooped something up from far back in their records.

"They'll surrender! They _must_ surrender!" Purple knew no other steps. They sought, they fought, and they won, rinse and repeat.

"We still have Protocol Black." Red said in a low voice, his eyes staring into the great eye of Baleron, and the sweeping flotsam of about a million Keri warships huddling around it. Where did they keep coming from? They clung to existence like the black ticks of Gys.

How _dare_ they resist the might of the Irken Empire! No inferior race had the numbers, the tech! Or the guts! What even were _they?_

He had given the job to Kastor to find out, but Kastor was dead. In fact, most of his high commanding officers were dead. The few who remained were slaughtering a meagre resistance of vortians on the planet Yornet, or they were on Irk, or were commanding their own private skirmishes in other vectors.

"Protocol Black?" Purple didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Red's claws gripped his skinny arms and squeezed, hoping the incentive of pain would bring his colleague's senses back. "We have no other choice! They're building up their forces again! If we're destroyed, the Armada is destroyed! And then our home world is next! The EMPIRE!"

Purple sobered on the instant and angrily shoved Red's claws off him. "We can't just have Irkens abandon their posts! Many are still in training! Irk won't be defended!"

"You think I don't know that? I am – _we_ – are the commandants of the Armada and the Empire's finest. If we don't stop them here, now, we'll lose everything!"

He could see Purple thinking it over. The Empire _was_ the universe; impregnable, unconquerable. It was their founding world, their collective invincibility. Millions of worlds had fallen under its heels, and its reach had spread through the galaxies, smothering all. Every boon of resource and fuel and energy was theirs. They had so many worlds that they didn't know what to use them for half the time, and named them with whatever came to mind. How could a new uprising ever hope to hurt them, much less conquer them?

Red knew he was suggesting the implausible; something that had never been done in the Empire's far reaching history.

"The Control Brains will have our heads!" Purple leaned against the console, feeling top-heavy.

"They'll have our heads if we lose! If we win this, if we overcome these Keri bastards or whatever they are, we'll be praised as heroes! They'll build statues in our honour! But both of us need to agree to this, together!"

Purple looked like he was about to be sick. "I never thought I'd say this..." He said, sounding faint. "But if we had thrown Zim into the mix, he probably would have defeated these keri by accident..."

Red simply stared at him. This was not the answer he had been expecting.

Around them, Irkens were rushing to and fro as various alarms pinged. Debris from the battle drifted before their main screen: sad remnants of Elite ships in bits. When something much more organic floated by, Red turned away. "There is no Zim to throw at them! And the longer we waste time debating, the stronger they'll get!"

"My Tallest!" Cried the navigator captain. He waved his arm up in the air whenever he received a report, or had some advice to impart.

"WHAT?" Both of them snapped at him in angry unison.

"An incoming message has just come through from Irk! A small regiment of Keri are going from galaxy to galaxy finding and killing Irkens off their home world."

Red and Purple did little else but stare.

"How do you know it's _them_?" Purple yelled. He came over and wrapped his long fingers into the navigator's collar, lifting him bodily from his seat.

"R-Reports of an interfering alien signal... strange magnetic fields erupting over the station they're posted at! T-The datalink from their PAKs goes dark. It's happening on a widespread scale! S-Some two hundred have been lost already."

Disgusted, Purple dropped him, and the navigator hit the dashboard of his console.

What kind of adversary had the numbers to not only attack them on the warfront but also had additional troops to assassinate unsuspecting Irkens on other worlds who were not a part of this war? How would they _know_ where to find them? Did they have inside Intel or were they using some kind of insane telepathy?

"Call someone! An invader! A regiment stationed on planet Nexus or something!" Purple's shouts were rising into a sort of hysterical shrieking. The navigator hurriedly grabbed his transmitter and began pressing buttons. The wait seemed extraordinarily long. Never had Red sweated. He didn't even think he _could_ sweat. The little console screen flashed to the grey mud dirt of planet Grim from the invader's planted viewing device. Invader Mint was there, lying in a supine position next to what was left of her computer terminals and other equipment. Her back was facing them, and there was no PAK to be seen. Old stains of dark emerald had dripped off her skull at some point, allowing a pool to gather beneath her head.

"Invader Mint! Report!" Purple yelled at the screen. "Report!"

"You idiot." Red said under strained breath. "She's dead."

"Then call somebody who isn't! Somebody who can tell us what's going on!"

"Nobody knows what's going on!" He growled. Purple stared at him in an insolent way before softening with grief, but not for small and insignificant invader Mint. "Purple. Observe the screen. What do you notice?"

Purple's upper lip lifted when he suspected mockery. "That Mint failed us!"

"No! It's the observatory screen! The Kerian left it there so we can see what they've done! Everything else has been destroyed! They knew we'd try to contact off-world Irkens, so they left us with a perfect view of their carnage!" He waited for it to sink in.

Purple clenched his teeth and turned soberly to his colleague. Something different was in his eyes. He couldn't be sure if it was madness, or bravery. "Protocol Black it is."

Red nodded.

Each Tallest held a key: a thin microchip that had to be inserted into the hub of the Massive at exactly the same time. One could not do it without the consent of the other. Protocol Black had never been activated in Irken history. It was their last fighting chip: their ultimate deus ex machina. Once activated, it sent out a widespread all-reaching distress call to every Irken serving the Empire. The Call to Arms could not be turned aside, or ignored. Young smeets who'd barely begun their first simulation would be called in, as well as the wounded and old, and those who had done nothing but serve food to others all their lives.

"Are you ready?" Red asked.

Purple nodded, grateful to his colleague for not losing confidence when he had wavered from the beginning. "R-Ready."

As one, they plugged their chip into the ship's towering nucleus, their gazes locked. There was no fanfare, and no bright colours to celebrate their hard decision. In moments this silent call would activate a signal to every PAK, every ship, and every computer console out there. Like ants they would all come marching to protect the hive.

-x-

Clara perched her shoulder against the wall, arms hugging her chest to try and coax some warmth into her body. Several times her pale hand reached for the door before her teetering courage failed. The walls were vibrating from the verbal tirade within, and she didn't need to be in that inferno and chaos.

Both men were too civil to go smashing things around in there, but it felt like it might come to that with every moment.

The scientist had seemed not altogether steady himself when he came to the front door, as if a storm had blown him all the way here.

She lifted her eyes to the window by the front door. The clouds were sombrely gathering. Cool winds were chasing away the hot air, and the blue of the sky had turned into a dark frown: the clime seemingly reflecting the thunder in the house.

It grew harder to remain impassive when her name was mentioned.

She could never brave arguments. Her parents had argued day and night, the debate usually ending with her father swinging a wine glass at her mother. It would hit her, or the wall, and leave a messy stain: giving her with the impression of blood as it dripped down the wall.

Zim, she was discovering, was a bastion for her emotional stability, enabling her to build up courage of her own. She saw much of her childhood pain in his eyes and in his actions. Being destructive was part of this emotional instability: something he had adopted. She understood how dangerous this was for them, for the baby, and Dib was worried she might miscarry.

She knew that Zim was aware of his failings, and this pushed him to work harder as if he could wipe clean this pain.

The professor's voice suddenly turned into a whipcrack through the wall, causing her to flinch. Usually mild and chivalrous, the professor had seemed incapable of losing his temper. Like two opposing tides, Dib's rage met his father's at every turn. It didn't help that he was mildly concussed. He'd banged his head on the stone floor when the explosion had catapulted him backwards.

Outside, the weather took a darker turn, stealing away the summer warmth with something cold and unfriendly.

The guilty ship that had started this catalyst sat perched in the garage, stinking of residue plasma fumes.

Thundering barks echoed though the walls. The professor sounded like a completely different person when he shouted.

She could hear Dib rage in kind: "You think you have all the answers, don't you? You always want everything to be perfect! Like your damn science! Everything's gotta line up just right! But your poor son could never quite match up to anything, could he? How does it feel, dad, to have a disappointing son who can't even keep a job?"

"Son..."

"But you can't even begin to imagine what I've been through! Because we're all machines, aren't we? Machines that need oil changes now and then! Or a quick bit of bolt tightening! But I am not a calculation or a machine!"

She thought one of them might fling wide the door at any moment and leave. Her eyes fetched around nervously. There was a silence in the room, behind the closed door that seemed to thicken like a poison.

"Son." The professor began more gently. "You have never failed me." His voice was carefully measured.

The wind mourned outside, causing the trees to creak and bend.

Clara pressed her cheek against the cool plaster of the wall as she listened: her stomach roiling and twisting at the news. Dib held onto things like a player held onto cards at a poker game. He never confided his innermost troubles and fiercely held onto his secrets, and his pain. Did he do this to protect himself?

Didn't he know that he could always confide in her, or Zim?

"I am listening, son. I am always listening. What then, will you have me do?" The older man's voice took softer reproach.

It would not be long before the argument would do a sharp U-turn back into Zim-territory. He was the centre-point, the crossroads they kept coming back to, and every time the conversation took to a new direction, it always landed them back to where they started.

The professor always seemed to have the answers as if they were readily stowed in his pockets, but he seemed a little out of his depth when things took an emotional left turn.

"I don't know..." There was silence. Then. "Do you always feel like you're going nowhere, dad? Like you're sinking? No matter what you do?"

"Son..."

"Everything always falls apart in the end, doesn't it?"

"No, no..."

"That's why you're always so obsessed with fixing things! Right? Gotta keep things neat and orderly! Can't let things slide out of control!"

In the cold stillness the professor's voice, cool as before, returned. "The incident was very unfortunate. But! We make mistakes, so that we can learn from them. In any event, it has upset you and Miss. Vernon. You have one of two options. I take the ship away, or you can help him repair it. I'm surprised at you, my dear boy. This was what you were obsessed with! Where has all that craziness of yours gone to, my boy?"

Clara stood, softly banging the back of her head against the wall in shared frustration. For a few days running she'd paid the ship a visit, mainly to see what all the excitable fuss was about. It had been hidden under a dusty tarp since she'd moved in with Dib, and a few shy glimpses here and there were enough to satisfy her curiosity. When Zim took onboard its repairs, its fullness was exposed, and she'd stood, staring at in from the safety of the open entrance.

When she looked upon it, it was much more reasonable to assume that it was some cart taken off a rollercoaster ride. They often had an alien look to them with their eccentric colours, appealing aesthetics and smoothening sides. But she knew better. Its rear engines looked sinisterly real. Its cabin with its hundreds of buttons, dials, knobs, panels and levers was more complicated than any pilot's fighter jet cabin. It had that grim, alien authenticity, of something impossibly _real_. And in that was the gravity of looming danger.

But around the ship spoke of a different labour: of mess and clutter, the disorder of things left wonky or forgotten: revealing the remorseful elements of the Irken's mind as he struggled against his physical and mental perimeters.

Clara would check on his progress, or the lack of it. It had become increasingly obvious that different tasks were being juggled, while some tasks were not given the necessary attention needed. Oils leaks were constant. Tubes lay everywhere. A sparking wire had been left unattended, and the cabin often seemed to garble to itself like it was possessed.

The ship's lower plating had been peeled back to expose inner fibres and a bounty of intricate machinery that had her staring at it in fascination. It carried the hallmarks of Irken wizardry: the same hallmarks she had seen in his base and within the workings of his PAK.

Dib meanwhile hardly ever overviewed the ship's development, mostly staying as far away as possible.

The silence grew in the other room like winter's frost.

She was sure so Dib had staggered helplessly into a roadblock, or was considering surrender.

Professor Membrane always spoke with honesty, even when that sincerity could hurt, and he saw the wisdom in things his son failed to see. Even Zim had once said to Dib; _"You may have courage, stink beast, but never the foresight! One of these days I'll find you in pieces!"_

Clara was left to imagine what they were doing in there, and if they were still talking, but in much softer tones.

She didn't want to hang around anymore like some waif waiting on male company. She'd heard all she needed to hear.

Skimming a cool, pale hand along the banister rail, she went up the stairs one at a time.

Outside, the city melted under bars of gold as the sun began its decline.

-x-

He stopped outside the open garage, a gloved hand pursed under the prow of his chin as he observed his son hunching over a plethora of wires jutting from the exposed hull of the ship. The cloying stink of plasma lingered. The scorch marks had been burned into the paving slabs of the garage floor.

Dib's face was tight in concentration, his sleeves soaked with oil. He went to undo the next segment of hull and dropped the spanner he had been grimly holding. It clattered with a painful ring.

Professor Membrane stepped closer. "Would you like any help?"

"I'll figure it out." He said through gritted teeth.

The professor entered the little chamber, admiring the sleek exterior of the ship and the geometry of its intricacies beneath the hull panels. Yes, much of it was in a mess, like mismatched puzzle pieces left to lie around, but he could see the makings of real potential.

"Diamonds only sparkle after coal is pushed to its absolute limit." He said as he patted the windshield with a gentle hand.

Dib looked at him a moment, blinking, before surveying the work he had no stomach for. "I don't need any more of your philosophical lectures."

"I know it's hard." He said softly. "I miss her too."

Dib swallowed, his eyes watering. Then he picked up the spanner.

x

 _Six days later_

 _x_

With a thin claw he sketched a circle on the window's misty condensation and, after a moment, he drew two eyes, followed by a long line that bent sharply downwards at both ends. He observed this crude and unhappy face before angrily rubbing it out. The book he'd been reading had proved more entertaining in other ways. Its shredded pages decorated the carpet in confetti.

When his anger mounted he gripped the plaster cast as if he meant to break it. Then a haze would pass over his eyes and he'd slacken his grip on the cast cocooning his arm; his breathing beginning to slow.

He watched the sky yield to the Northern Lights. Even the sombre clouds could not obscure them or hide the intensity of the display. Alien brilliance of green, purples and indigo coloured his eyes.

He drew into himself, sealing off the parts in his mind that made him feel bad.

It was better to compartmentalize it, forget it.

And he wondered, not for the first or the last time, if he truly had been fooled by them.

His one fist clenched, and then unclenched, his heavily-lined eyes flickering.

His pride had once been an invincible steel tower. It could suffer dents from any number of blows. It might wobble under extreme circumstances, but never had it tumbled, or trembled, or fallen. It had always stood firm: a totem of his defiance as if it had also taken root down below to suffer the worst of any extreme. Now chunks had been taken out of it. The foundations struggled to uphold its topmost summit as it trembled, and he was sure, any day now that it would come crashing down, exposing the roots below.

One arm clasped his chest for warmth.

 _I am strong._ He told himself.

Working on that ship had exorcised some of the incredible frustration he had felt at not being able to pursue his military endeavours. It also helped him control but never master his grief.

Lifting weary eyes he looked past his willowy and thin reflection to the Aurora Borealis as it ran silky ribbons of glimmering cyan, emerald and purple across the darkening sky. The weaving wisps of gentle magic played out like visible annotations of music as they thickened and twisted in shivery reams.

He had never seen them in Lincoln, and suspected that something might be disrupting the Earth's magnetism, but he couldn't know for sure, not without his military equipment.

One night, so long ago now, he'd been at the controls of the Voot watching the very same marvelling display far longer than a soldier should. Gir had pushed against him in his haste to get closer to the spectacle.

"Lookatthat!Lookatthat!" He had said as he bounced on his lap. "I want to ride the pretty snakes! I do! I dooo!"

"They're not icky snakes, Gir! And we're not here to have fun!"And he had pulled on the lever and thrown the Voot, nose first, into the sky, turning her with the brutish, rough handlings of an angry pilot.

The lights shape-shifted into different colours and dyes, all melding and oozing like smoke.

Slowly, Zim's eyes began to drift with them. Tension slipped out of his body a little at a time, his muscles finally unknotting.

He wasn't sure he could ever switch off. Ever stop. That burden had been encoded into him as soon as he had been given life.

These claws, this edge, this smirk: they had suited him well in battle. Now he was lost in-between.

The voice was there again, inviting itself in when he was lost for answers, when solutions dissolved around him, and whenever he wondered what his family might be thinking of him.

A dying butterfly fluttered weakly on the carpet not far from his window seat amongst the pages of shredded confetti. He hadn't been mentally sound enough to notice it lying there, but now he stared openly at it. It must have come in through an open window, and, having got trapped - _like a prisoner –_ it had given up. His wild dark eyes were glued to its shrivelled wings and pencil-thin legs that were crooked and bent.

How terrible a fate to never find your way out; hitting the walls as insanity and desperation breached the last shreds of self-control.

He closed his eyes and felt the room spin him around. A fist inched its way up to his head and he held it there as the only means to hold in the scream. He liked to think he was showing a kind of amazing indomitability for not giving in, for not audibly unleashing his heartache. Then he placed his trembling claw back over his chest.

' _Old bones break more easily,'_ so went the advice of his Protector. Then the kindly human had stuffed him to the hilt with painkillers. His world shortly after his fall was a maze of colors that spun round each other, his consciousness probing forwards now and then, only to pull back just before hitting the surface. He was aware only of good things: of Clara sitting closely and holding his claws while singing a song. He thought it was the computer with its pre-programmed music trying to soothe him. When Zim started to lean over and cough in an attempt to budge out the discomfort he was forced to lay back, that plastic mask was put over his mouth, and his breaths were easier: the struggle eased, and he had fallen back to sleep.

The older man had said: _"I've sealed your right arm in a cast that you can rest in a sling. The energy beam I've used to help fuse the deepest breaks should speed up your healing, but you still have to put up with that cumbersome cast for three weeks. No less."_

Perfect. Now he'd be forced to endure a tormenting Wedding Ceremony with only one arm to defend himself with.

Zim turned away from the lights a moment as dappled glows torpidly travelled over his bandaged supine form. The turtleneck sweater did an okay job of hiding most of the gauze beneath.

He was tempted to push this self-pity to one side just long enough to do some work on his computer, but he wasn't sure how long he could last before his temper came bursting out.

The storm seemed out of place on so happy a late summer's day. Wind ruffled the garden, and the trees at the far end danced and nodded. Great waves of pink petals surged from left to right, seeking every corner of fence as the wind chased them around. He watched this drama, detached from it all, his mind inwardly searching for answers he did not have.

Age had given him too many badges he did not want to wear.

Grief. Guilt. Regret. As much as he tried to keep his thoughts trained on elsewhere things, one fear came unbidden.

When _that_ baby was born, they would abandon him. He was too dangerous. Too predictable in unpredictable ways.

 _That_ was why his two humans were getting married _. That_ was why Dib was so pissy about everything. _That_ was why Clara was so woebegone.

Baby this. Baby _that_. Ruining everything. Complicating _EVERYTHING!_

He had gone and stepped into their arms, their home, and the door had shut firm on his escape, his infirmity the largest cage of all.

Pain defined him. It had never left his side since he was born. It had turned him into the fighter he was today. But he didn't feel like fighting. He just wanted the pain to end.

Sweat trickled down his ribs, his breath escaping his chest in squeaky puffs.

His life was nothing more than a catalogue of mishaps and misfortunes and mistrusts. Had he really thought all this pain would stop the moment he escaped his old life? He did not want to be pulled under by lies and broken truths.

Destruction was all he was good for.

Eyes swept to the garage below before he could snap them shut in time.

On the day of the wedding he was going to quietly sneak away and go back home to see if anything was... left.

He listened to the tireless swish of the liquid in his PAK. The sounds were more of a white noise now – something he was noticing less and less. Across from him, his computer monitors were awash with activity. The screen showed cars driving by on the main road. A pigeon had just landed on the front porch.

Safe behind his observation screens he could watch the world breeze by, but the echoes of his war days continued in his head.

Growing tired, Zim awkwardly made his way down from the window with an anaesthetized expression that was about as muted as his eyes. He gently picked up the butterfly with his left hand, staring at it. Then, with the clumsiness of a one-armed Irken, Zim opened the window and let the wind carry the butterfly to freedom.

-x-

He pushed back on his hands, stopping only to inspect everything he'd done so far. Bits of technological material that had remained exclusively alien to him were now slowly being understood. Revelations were coming out of the dark unknown and throwing light on things. With Zim describing their functions in reluctant measures, he was steadily familiarising himself with the parts, seeing them as pieces of equipment where once they had been scary oddities that belonged to a greater nightmare. But this task challenged his aptitude and scientific talents, and on more than one occasion he stopped to wonder if his dad would be equally as stumped.

It didn't matter that his blue shirt got smattered with oil, or that his hands were greasy or if his hair smelt of plasma. He'd begun to enjoy the work as he got his brain and confidence around the alien bizarreness with its relatively logical functions. It was also incredibly good to know that the ship wasn't about to suddenly implode around him any time soon – or so he hoped. He'd associated anything Irken to spontaneously combust with or without provocation. A powerful machine demanded respect as much as it demanded a pilot's understanding, as it carried lethal fuels and the plasma necessary to achieve efficient speeds. In the wrong hands, anything was dangerous.

When he unfastened sleek rubbery plating, and unrolled tough coils, he saw no evil looking back at him; no vindictive phenomenon crouched to pounce, and certainly nothing waiting to start a spark. His optimism helped lead his motivation, and soon he was ducking in and around the ship and taking parts off a space craft that was becoming more ordinary as his familiarity grew.

But, as he grew more enthused, Zim went the other way. He stood slightly away from Dib and the ship, head bowed, antenna not angling or bobbing for anything. When Dib put forth a comment or a question, the old alien's wrinkled eyes and bandaged head would steer his way for a moment as if he'd been adrift in a daydream.

"I've removed the grid plating. Now what do I do?"

The elderly bug stood crooked, the crutch positioned under his left armpit, looking drunk on painkillers.

Pearly petals from the cherry blossom tree had sneaked their way in, and they floated and trundled along the floor with every whisper of breeze. The Irken's attention was on them, and only them.

Dib heaved himself to his feet, leaving an oily patch that kept pooling from the ship's bowels. He came over, wondering what reaction he'd get if he touched him – even gently. Though Zim was habitually skittish when he was touched by humans, Dib had learnt that touch; comfort and human affection had brought Zim to the shores of recovery.

"Hey, why don't you sit down? There's a chair just over here. You can still watch me work." When the Irken enunciated nothing, he put a hand on each shoulder and steered the reluctant alien towards the awaiting chair.

Zim sagged down into it and Dib took the crutch and leaned it against the wall, making sure it was within the former soldier's reach.

"What do I do next, Zim? I've removed the plating. There are these tubes. Everywhere." Irkens sure loved their damn tubes. They were behind everything, from walls to aluminium sheets to plating. Zim's former base had been the glorious main example of this method.

The Irken's eyes were dark unseeing crescents. Claws held his lumpy arm cast insecurely. The impassivity across his face remained.

Dib was determined. He wouldn't quit until Zim was shouting at him to shut up and leave him alone.

He leaned against the ship and rasped his knuckles on her dull red side.

"This ship needs a name. We can't keep calling it 'Tak's ship' forever. And I think we should change the colors, don't you think?" But Dib's voice sounded like something being squeezed.

"I don't care." Though his voice was brittle and croaky, it still carried an old abrasive sharpness. His hooded eyes remained downcast, and aching.

Dib's eyes swept to the oil stained floor a moment, his inner drive threatening to plunge. He brought a hand into a fist, solidifying his motive. He had a fortunate or unfortunate habit of finding hidden vestiges of strength through defeat.

He came and knelt before him. Zim didn't look his way.

Was he aware of his dementia? Was it like trying to catch smoke in one's hands? Did he know he was losing himself day by day, sometimes catching those lost moments and sometimes not remembering them at all? Dib could not imagine what it must be like. Getting Zim working, getting him _thinking_ was the way forwards. It was the only solution he could think of.

"Hey?" He started gently. "We _can_ fix her! Do you want me to say that I was wrong? That I'm the world's biggest moron? Because I _am_ that moron, Zim, and you've gotta put up with me. I... I lost my job. I'm going to marry Clara. And I'm going to be a dad. That's a lot of pressure for one big headed moron, dontcha think? The more I have, the more I have to lose. And I'm afraid of losing what I have."

Zim made a meek shrug, his eyes distant: his bruised right eye notably more creased. A ream of gauze had been secured around his head just above his eyes. His chest was plastered in abundant dressing too, including his right shoulder. His frumpy turtleneck sweater hid most of the damage, but the incident had left deeper cracks within: cracks that he could see through Zim's glassy eyes.

"I should have been helping you with the ship from the beginning." Dib continued, looking straight at him while Zim gazed with a disconnected focus. "And I didn't. And I'm sorry. Hurting you hurts me. It took a lot of courage for you to ask for help. And I ignored you."

Zim's unfocused eyes were a mix of worried colours. The lights in the garage made his skin look more grey than green.

"Zim, you _are_ my world." He waited a moment, giving the Irken time to mull things over. He should have been used to these cranky intervals, but usually Zim's darker moods never lasted. His attention span had always been too short to hold grudges, his necessity for attention and recognition outweighing the stubbornness he exhibited. And his eyes were soft with grief.

Dib knew that he would never be able repair the ship without the Irken's guidance and Zim _knew_ that.

It was hard maintaining this self-assured front. Zim wasn't the only one with walls, and they were both getting too old for these rifts that kept opening up between them.

Wasn't life so much simpler when he just had a one-alien war to worry about? His life had gravitated around Zim, and the alien had done likewise with him. Now their intertwined lives had opened up new roads, not all of them as ordinary and as predictable as before.

Dib wasn't prepared to admit his purpose once he _could_ fly, in the fearful possibility that Zim may abandon any desire to repair the craft. The human been toying with the idea for months, and each time it came up he carted it back to the dungeons below where all his half-kept ideas were hidden until it would creep back again. Zim said desperate things sometimes, many of them worthless bits of information hidden in his drivel of lies. He just hoped it existed, and was not some other pretence the Elite had conjured in the moment. He was fucked if it was.

When and if the former soldier shook himself out of his mortification, he might ask Dib what he intended to do with the ship and he might not.

There was also a likelihood that Zim _already_ knew. He was a library of secrets, his words a flourishing fountain of pretences to keep his enemies at bay. He distracted them with his flashy dramatics, his taunts and his posturing. But he had been much more aware of what was going on around him than Dib had ever truly suspected.

Zim sat there as if something inside had crumpled inward – as if that cord in his back that had made him stand _tall_ had snapped.

Dib could not stand to see him like this. It felt as though he was looking at a mocking caricature of the real thing.

He reached out and touched his hand that was resting on the plaster-cast.

Having paraded through a regimented military life, the Irken was conditioned to holding things in.

He would not speak of how he had fallen down those stairs, or how he was feeling now. Things a human could say easily, he found impossible. That oyster of a shell he kept tightly over his heart was opening up to them every now and then when rare conditions were met, but most times it was clamped so tightly you didn't even know where the seams began. Dib could hardly vilify the indominus of his spirit. It was the part of Zim's nature that was still hanging on. And he needed to show him that he could be just as indomitable.

He patted the Irken's bruised hand with a small smile and turned back to the exposed jumble of tubing. All his life he'd tackled his feelings by going the 'active' route. If he kept moving, if he kept his mind above the problem, he was better able to endure the emotional tempest.

As he started picking up random strands of alien fibres, it became painfully clear he had no idea what he was doing. Does this go here? It sorta fits, but then it could go here, right? And this thing, what the heck does that even do? Where does this connect? If something isn't connected just right, will that make something blow up?

He would have been happier building a Russian submarine from scratch.

Light as a feather, Zim's hand rested over his and gently guided it to the correct tube for the correct slot. The open sincerity made the wrinkles under his eyes look twice as sharp.

The inner hatch glowed a sudden, hot-oven red, and Dib jumped back, hands out when he expected something about to blow. Zim did not move, and looked on in almost bored reproach at the open hatch. Hoping he hadn't looked too cowardly, Dib approached, realizing that it was the main console screen that was all bright and satanically blood-red. **INCOMING MESSAGE** read the screen over and over like one of those annoying notifications. Without a word, Zim leaned in and nudged a button. Symbols pounced onto the screen in the typical foreboding Irken characters, all of them in stark blinding red. As pre-instructed due to Zim's hacking, the symbols were translated into English.

"What the heck?" Dib leaned forwards to squint at it. Zim glumly looked too without much reaction, but his eyes were a deep mixture of dark glitter.

' **CODE BLACK. ALL IRKENS ARE ORDERED TO TAKE UP ARMS. CO-ORDINATES ARE AS FOLLOWS. FAILURE TO COMPLY WILL RESULT IN IMMEDIATE DETENTION AND EXECUTION.'**

Dib had to blink and read it again, but the message did not change, and neither did the menace with which it carried, and the Irken was not helping him with his confusion. "Zim? What the hell is this?"

The Irken gazed blankly at the screen as if hypnotized. The red lettering was imprinted in his eyes.

Dib looked his way, frowning when he received no answer. "Zim?"

The prompt made the Irken's bruised and pale face turn into a snarl, but his eyes remained wary. "Read it again you fool! If you didn't get it the first time!" He backed up a step and then another. His antenna fell all the way down as if it had been tugged. Then he simply turned, took up his crutch and headed through the garage opening and into the thick sunlight. There he stood, letting the light wash over him.

Dib came to quietly stand beside him, not sure what to say. He knew little of Zim's past, or of Irken affairs and regulations sent out by their superiors. Finding anything out was like playing a game of Cluedo. Get enough information and you could sort of build a picture of what life was like for an Irken, but the circumstances were still largely veiled in darkness. Clara had estimated that Zim must have been a child soldier, trained up early, and sent out to war before he was ready. Maybe it was all speculation on her part, or maybe Zim had given her a few titbits here and there, all of which could easily be lies to cover the deeper truths. Or maybe he told truths to make them look like lies.

He decided he was going to be frank about it. He usually ended up being blunt about things anyway to get the answers he sought. He wasn't one for fancy words like his father, or being diplomatic like Clara.

"It's an order, isn't it? To go to war. Guess Tak's ship still picks up transmissions." He had no idea if 'going to war' was a common thing Irkens did, and how serious they were. For all he knew there was a new battle every week, or if this was actually a Big Deal. "They don't need you. You're free. Being here, with us, is what's important."

Zim finally lifted reticent eyes at the human. He could say a lot of things, and hide even more. "It's just a standard m-message." He said. "All working ships are linked to the Empire's d-directives."

"Right." Dib replied hastily. "It doesn't apply to you."

Zim looked away, eyes directed towards the house. An anvil hit Dib's chest when he could _feel_ the thinnest barrier of ice still between them.

"I've got a little surprise for you." The human said with a shy smile. "It's something I've been working on for the past day or two."

The bug cocked his grey-tipped antenna at him, keen to know what Dib could possibly drum up that would be a 'surprise.'

The human reached into his pocket where worry seemed to tumble into his amber orbs, and then he opened out his hand. Zim looked at it, the hard edges of his expression softening into confusion. It was small and nothing especially special. It was just a very slim rod of metal, with a tiny acrylic teardrop attached.

"W-What is that? Something for me to poke you with?"

"No, no, it's a hearing aid."

"Hearing...aid?" He croaked, anticipating another one of Dib's foolish jokes.

"Let's see if it works. I can't iron out the kinks if we don't try it."

Zim flinched, slipping out a tetchy groan. He wasn't so sure he wanted to be 'tested' for anything. But Dib wasn't backing down. "It'll enhance your hearing, making up for your left-sided... urm... impairment."

The Irken lifted his eyelids a moment at him, sceptical. The human had always been afflicted with silly ideas that went nowhere.

Dib got real close, so close that Zim could feel his breath on his skin. Dismally accepting his fate, he bit his claws into his heavy cast, sighing. Dib adjusted the metal line along the left side of Zim's skull, and melded the shape of it so that it slipped delicately around the base of his deformed antenna. It was bendable so that it could stay clipped.

"Does that hurt?"

Zim shook his head.

Dib had another device in his hands. It was a tiny gauge with a dial on it. "This is how I'll adjust the sound frequency, but it's only a prototype, so the design of it might change or I can alter the overall mechanics of the thing. Any changes so far?"

There was a high pitched sound. His right picked it up perfectly before he slammed it back down against the now-screaming pitch.

"Too high?" Dib dialled it down a bit.

Noises, coming in looping pitches, were starting to register on his right antenna in a cleaner fashion, but his left could not pick them up, only the very low vibrations that oscillated down what remained. He was missing a vital part of his feeler, the apex. Without it, he could not channel sound, for there was nothing there to pick up on it. If anything, the shrill pitches made the crooked part hurt.

Dib read the expression on his face and realized that it wasn't working. Gently he took it off and put it this time on his right side. He turned the dial up by a fraction. "Can you hear me now?" He said in a whisper, a whisper Zim normally could not hear.

"I can lip read you." Zim said sombrely.

Dib raised his eyebrows, hiding a smile. He turned the dial up another notch and then turned around and whispered something.

"Yes, actually. I can." There was the faintest surprise in his brittle voice.

Dib turned back, looking pleased.

"But I can already hear with my right." Zim said.

"Maybe so, but this device will provide you with a wider scope. You'll be able to pick up on a lot more. You haven't noticed it, Fudge, but you've steadily got deafer." He reached over and carefully unclipped the device. "I'm going to modify it a little more. You'll be able to wear it under your wig."

But Zim didn't look as attracted to the idea as Dib had hoped.

-x-

While his family slept, and the slim crescent of moon bathed the clouds in silver, Dib quietly went out through the back door, and looked up at the cameras pointing down at him from the eaves. He swallowed, and glanced away, pulling the coat about his neck a little tighter. He walked across the lawn, hearing the drone of crickets.

After a moment, as he stood indecisively, he hit the button and again turned back to the house as the garage door lifted. No alarms had been triggered – there were no lights coming on within the house. And so, he remembered to breathe.

He slipped inside, and turned to face the ship.

He always had his eyes trained on the stars. His father was right.

After the wedding, if the ship could be repaired in time, he would take that chance.

 _It'll be just like driving a car_. He told himself. _I've done it before. I can do it again._

Dib opened up the cockpit and stepped inside its ridiculously small and tight compartment. He could barely move.

He reached over and touched the control panel. It lit up, throwing out holographic displays as if it was desperate to relay information and destinations to its would-be pilot.

"Computer – urm – ship?" He wasn't sure how to address it until it had a name, or something. In his head, Zim whispered back _: 'You never know when to quit, Dib worm.' "_ Show me the co-ordinates to Karthia."

* * *

 **Dib07** : Stay safe out there guys. I hope this update made your day a little bit better!


	9. The Wedding

**Saving Zim: Epilogue by Dib07**

 ** _Summary:_**

 _Zim is wary of 'happiness' and life without missions, orders and dictatorship, and as he is coming to terms with his new family, he's confused as to what purpose he must serve. An Irken Threat determines his existence, including all of Irkenkind, with the Enemy tempting him with the chance to regain Gir. Drifting far beyond the edge, everything becomes uncertain on the other side._

 _ **Disclaimer:**_

 _I do not own the IZ characters. However this story and this idea is mine._

 _Cover art beautifully made by_ _Truekrisstianity!_ _All credit goes to her,_ _please do not use without his permission, thank you :)_

 ** _Warnings:_**

 _Character angst. Gary._

* * *

 **Dib07:** Hello again, and thank you all for your touching feedback! It feeds me, always, and hearing your thoughts as these characters journey through life is the best. I hope you are all safe out there during these troubling times.

 **Guest:** Thank you so much! Your review touched me beyond words, I can hardly express my gratitude enough, or my feelings from the joy of how you described your experiences with this story! I've had my ups and downs with this story, but I've had so much loving support throughout - I am still in disbelief with how much this is loved! This story has touched you, and I can think of no better praise or honour - I've wanted this story to reach out, and speak through the readers. I want it to take a life of its own. And yes, this life is so hard on the boys. It's not what either of them expected. Life never is, sadly. Zim's time is running short. What you said encapsulated him and his situation perfectly, as well as Dib's. I'm so glad to hear also that you think this story is as good as its original! I always worry, thinking it can't live up to its predecessor, so it was a relief to read what you wrote!

* * *

 **CHAPTER 9: The Wedding**

 _x_

 _'I'm drawn to the unknown, where shadows hide_  
 _A slave to the powers that magnetize_  
 _There's something inside of me I can't fight.'_

 _Astronomical - Svrcina_

 _x_

 _'I hear music in the air tonight_  
 _One familiar fading tune_  
 _I can't save you from the monsters coming_  
 _But we'll wake up very soon'_

 _No One Will Save You - Aviators_

 _x_

" _It's an order, isn't it? To go to war. Guess Tak's ship still picks up transmissions."_

 _The Tallest..._

What was going on, up there?

Shadows moved. The wind made his bowtie and coattails flutter.

What had alarmed the Empire to initiate the rallying call? He would not have known if not for the ship's message. The radio at his desk wasn't enough. Searching for information on current Irken affairs via the ship would open up sensitive channels – and they'd know someone was prying.

Despite what might be going in the cosmos, the blue sky was tranquil, but the shifting colors of the Northern Lights remained.

He told himself that nothing was going to happen from up there.

All the chaos was down here.

He crookedly stood, tense and bereft beside a colourful blue and white pavilion, his dark magenta eyes under the contacts flinching to and fro, his claws drumming against the plaster of his right arm – a cast pockmarked with scratches. Cradled under the plaster-arm was the Gir doll.

He thought battles were a gruelling affair.

Today had proven him wrong.

Purgatory Day had come at last.

His battlefield was stray children and inquisitive adults amongst the ongoing stresses of blaring music and parades of food as waiters zipped around with platters piled high with strange alien offerings.

He had to suffer it as politely as his sanity could allow while he looked for escape, but the overbearing professor was watching him with eagle eyes.

The green of the terrace was ablaze with camera flashes and the thud and swirl of feet, the air filled with babbling talk and laughter. Every scene was a slashing sea of colour, noise and movement. Though Zim was trained to endure under pressure in stressful combat situations, he stared at the moving crescendo as a bewildered fisherman might stare into the eye of the storm.

Clara had dressed him for the part. His gauntness was clasped in a handsome violet jacket that had been impressively tailor-made to fit so bony a frame. It was expensive velvet, with twin tails at the back that almost reached to the floor. It complimented his black pants and little black bowtie, the black cuff of his sleeve protruding from the violet sleeve. His cast had just about gone through the sleeve, and he held it to his chest, not wishing to appear weak by wearing the customary sling.

On the left side of his chest was a purple rose he had home-grown. He hadn't wanted to cut it from its stem. Without the immortality that had duly made him blind, he saw how everything lived, and how everything died. He saw it first in the flowers. They wilted: curling and withering at the edges: their beauty and strength failing.

He stood, staring and scowling as people whipped by.

Dib and Clara had become changelings. He hardly recognised them.

The Call to Arms pestered him, hour after hour, urging him to do _something_ when he had nothing left to give. Pressing a knuckled claw to his chest was all the proof he needed.

"Ah, there you are!" His voice, mostly docile, was edged with underlining concern mingled with tension. During this prominent celebratory day the scientist still wore his lab coat as if he was about to pop back to work at any moment. Zim gave a prostrated glare in return, his shoulders tightening. The professor only warmly chuckled. "Now, now, no growling! If you'd just follow me! The ceremony is about to begin!"

Before they entered the church, friends and acquaintances of who-knows-who lifted their eyes to stare at him. It was hard to mistake a green 'child.' He stood out, despite his littleness. Faces were unfamiliar: canopies of strangers blending and morphing into kaleidoscopes of the faceless unknown.

Mary, a girl with bouncy red hair, greeted the professor warmly. She went to shake Zim's hand, who growled and stepped away.

"That's a funny doll you have there." Commented the girl.

"Not as funny as you." He sniped back.

"You're... green." She rocked to and fro on her heels, looking at him curiously. He saw it as contemptuous.

"He has a skin condition." Membrane interrupted before Zim could erupt with profanities.

Mary nodded, still rocking to and fro on her heels. "How old are you?"

"Plenty old enough!" Zim croaked, snarling, and making sure he showed plenty of teeth.

The professor gave a humoured chuckle before heading towards the church. Zim grimly went with him, only to hear the girl chatter away at his shoulder as she followed. "I have a doll too. Can we play later?"

"Don't you have keepers? Aren't you s-supposed to be caged in some filthy dungeon?"

"Oh we can play castles and dungeons! I'd love that!"

Gaz watched Zim and Mary from the crowd, a combative frown framing her features, arms folded in front of her chest. She wore a flashy purple dress, almost matching the colour of the Irken's formal attire, and she had delicate latticework in her hair, speckled in tiny onyx stones. Many females wore hats of some kind: usually perched on one side like ludicrously tiny crowns. If Zim had read Alice in Wonderland, he would have seen many comparisons.

Several times people stopped the professor for an autograph, or to simply introduce themselves with their sunny smiles. Gaz watched as people massed around the disguised alien; constantly forming walls and moving like a fleshy tide. Their voices were a cocktail of noise that she knew would distress the Irken, gravitated as he was to the centre of this maelstrom. As much as the professor tried to shield him from it, there was little he could do.

"Hi, I'm Claudia." They reached for the professor like he was some kind of messiah.

"This is Hugh. You work with my uncle Ted."

"This is Gretchen. You remember Gretchen, don't you?"

"Hi professor, it's Jacki!"

"Hello! Nice to meet you! I'm Bonnie! Gaz's hi skool friend!"

Each one loomed forebodingly close, and each time they glanced his way, Zim's adrenaline seemed to find a new plateau. He was just waiting for someone to start screaming 'ALIEN!' at any moment.

Then they were herded into the chapel, and Zim was ushered into a dark, dusty chamber that made him think of deep, hard earth and cold lonely places. He looked up while passing the pews to see the majestic coloured glass murals on the walls. They were full of light and vivacity - depicting colourful images of Christ carrying this huge wooden sword and alongside him were hooded women. Each one was a vista of misery despite the bounty of colour inlaid in every piece of glass. Unable to understand the religious undertones and the symbolism involved, it only came across as eerily foreboding.

At the forefront there was a wooden podium, an altar, and a tall man dressed in black robes with a dab of white on his collar. He opened out this humongous book, its thudding outer cover creating this waft of dust.

There were flowers everywhere, and religious symbols of crucifixes everywhere. They hung on the walls – the doors, furthering his beliefs of their pathological madness.

He sat beside Gaz on the front row, wearied and chilled as haunting music began to play. She shot him an icy look, sometimes staring down at the doll with clear contempt. She hadn't spoken to him since she'd burst into his bedroom, shaking him like a ragdoll, screaming; _"You're not the real Zim! You can't be! You just can't!"_

She was much taller than he remembered, with slender hips and a narrowed face that had taken on a cool, angelic grace. Her brooding eyes dominated this beauty, making her look colder and hard of heart. She sparingly wore make-up. She didn't really need to, for it only would have softened her unsentimental guise.

He'd hoped the thick cast on his arm and his black eye might encourage her to leave him be, but it didn't seem to be working.

The denizens of humans were settling down on their hard and uncomfortable seats. He looked around for the professor, finding him absent.

Now was his chance.

Just as he was about to get up and leave, there was a hush, a change in energy. Dib was climbing the steps to the podium, looking handsome and so grownup in his slender black tux and bowtie. A blue rose was on his lapel. But ashy pale was his face.

Adhering to the gods maybe, and fulfilling an ancient rite, Professor Membrane came walking down the aisle, Clara's dainty hands hugging his right arm as they proceeded towards the altar. Everyone leaned forwards in their seat to watch the procession as the two humans walked almost solemnly down the carpet side by side.

Clara looked like a goddess. Her slim profile was adorned in cream and white, with golden seams and folds. On her head was this delicate golden diadem that helped to conceal her face with a diaphanous veil. She was dressed like a Tallest: the long, impeccable gown, the silk white gloves that went to her elbows. And the weirdest part of all this was how insanely nervous she looked. Even Dib appeared deeply anxious. The former Elite recognised those strained smiles.

Gaz nudged him.

He shot her a look.

"The rings!" She hissed.

Driven by her look of murder, he clumsily scrabbled in his pocket for them one-handed, letting the doll slip to the floor. A ring gold and shiny, bounced out of his pocket and rolled under the pew behind them.

"Idiot!" She cursed, dropping down to look for it.

He gormlessly watched as she pawed around for it. The little girl Mary came over, handing the ring back to him, smiling brightly.

He hissed at her. It only made her laugh.

There was an exchange of hands, the exchange of rings (of which Zim was positive the rings were talismans to empower this fusion), and the priest murmured cryptic words that were quite possibly magical. Clara and Dib stood looking into each other's eyes as if they had never seen one another. The priest murmured more words. Then the two of them reached forwards and kissed.

There was an eruption of cheer from the human mass, gripped as they were in some terrible mania. Flowers were thrown in the explosion of excitement.

He couldn't stand it.

He clambered out of his seat and drunkenly made his way to promising sunlight, staggering this way and that. Stepping into the golden warmth, he fetched himself up against the gateway of the entrance, gasping.

The brightness of the day was blinding.

The palpitations did not pass so quickly.

Hugging the rails of the black Iron Gate with one arm, he made his way towards the emptiness of the knoll where pavilions and gazebos stood, vacant and quiet.

The line of rails ended, and, pausing to catch his breath, he pushed on. He felt pale. The world was feathery and the edges were dipped in ink. Maybe the sunlight was making things appear psychedelic and strange.

A shadow, long and tall, dropped over them like an anvil.

He turned, seeing those cold eyes of amber. The squall of excitement had not impressed her, it seemed, or even chilled that shard of ice in her heart.

Her flinty eyes roamed over the blue tube on his PAK, her uncomfortable stare lingering there.

He went to go. Gaz's arm struck out like a viper - a hand coiling around his bony wrist. "Let go of m-me!" His snarl was a weak protest that beheld none of it former authority.

"I can't believe they're having a family with _you_ in the picture." She snarled back. "Dib's just as crazy as you are!"

"You don't..." He had to cough. "...have any r-right to t-touch me!"

"What happened to you? You don't get old. You don't stutter! You don't break! It's all a trick, isn't it?"

"Why are you hurting him?" Piped a small voice.

They both turned to look. It was the little redheaded girl.

Gaz blinked and let go. Zim staggered before balancing himself out, eyes glassy, lips pinched.

"It's not nice to fight." The girl continued. "Here's your dollie." And she presented the Gir doll. Zim took it, confused.

Gaz eyed her, then the doll, looked ready to say something, then trembled and stormed off. Like a wolf scenting wounded prey, she would not go far.

The girl came right up to him without permission. "Was she hurting you because you're green?"

"Just..." He felt himself coiling up, going tense, "go back to w-where you belong!"

A man wearing a black suit with a white rose pinned to his chest came up alongside the girl, and took her hand in his. Zim shot a look, synthesized eye contacts staring up into a face with grey stubble. His face was partly hidden by the shadow cast from a fedora, and from the shadow, a pair of grey eyes stared out: shiny as coins. In that stare was the sound of rain, and of deep dark drains.

Instinct - senses honed from battle - rang alarm bells in his head. Equipped to feel imminent danger, his antennae sensing the drop of a grenade before it landed, he had intuitively gone with these feelings, and react, but there were no battlefields here, no incoming bombs, and no gunfire.

"You." Barked the man. His voice sounded like a holystone being dragged across wood.

Feathers of black floated into his vision. An old hurt in his chest he hadn't felt for months was there again. "Yes?"

The rain was louder. Silver links rattled in a chain wall as cold hands clenched them desperately in the dark reaches of memory. The man seemed to have eyes that could look _through_ him.

He had faced enemies before, enemies with that same marked insight.

Something was tugging at him to remember.

Those deep dark drains held him.

Membrane was suddenly there, and patted a giant hand upon his shoulder. The noise of the world seemed to return, as did his focus.

"And who might you be? I don't think we've been introduced." The professor asked the stony man with the dark eyes half hidden by his fedora.

"I work in the Paranormal Field." He rasped uncomfortably. "You know Mary, my niece. And this?" He nodded at Zim as if he was a thing.

"Zim, my protégé. Now, we best be off. Good day." The professor led the old Elite across the grass to a huge exhibit of tables and chairs that surrounded a stage where a musical band was playing. The stage's backdrop was a huge lake, known as Valley Lake. The sun shone off its flat surface, making it look psychedelic.

"You're very pale, Zim." The professor remarked. "How are you feeling?"

When he tried to speak, nothing but a splutter came out. It was as if his throat was locking up every word.

Membrane guided him towards a particular table pristinely adorned with cream coloured ribbons, shiny silver cutlery and napkins made into swans. Zim saw that the chair already had a white padded cushion. His name had been written on a placard by the cutlery.

He sat on the chair only to wilt at the table.

Flocks of humans drifted around the table like currents in the sea.

The professor was offering something, and it took a hazy moment for him to acknowledge it. On his outstretched palm were two little pink capsules. "Now, take a breath. You hold it all up inside."

"I d-do not." But he took a breath, and let it out again. He felt something tumble aside, and his shoulders slumped a little.

"That's better." Came the protector's gentle approval.

He swallowed the pills with orange juice.

To his right a table was slowly being filled by Dib's former work colleagues, some belonging to the Swollen Eyeball Network. They were talking profusely to one another in rowdy voices, looking amicable and pleased.

Zim watched with growing dissonance.

The table was filling up with people. Gaz sat opposite with that same scowl as if it had permanently been carved there. Then came two other people who'd previously been introduced to him, but already he'd forgotten their names and all associations with them. They were all toothy smiles, stinking of perfume. They wore sparkling clothes as if they were starring in some royal pageant.

The professor was about to ask him something when there was the sound of chinking glass. They looked to see Dib standing at his table tapping a silver spoon to his champagne glass. It had the desired effect; heavy silence cut through the rabble of noise like a knife.

"My wife and I would like to thank you all for coming. It's been a wonderfully surreal day for me and I cannot thank my new father-in-law and mother-in-law enough for coming, and giving us their blessing. Three cheers to Claudia and Hugh!" But his voice did not sound like his own. It was hard even to recognise him.

The two strangers at the table opposite Zim saluted their drinks at the groom before an explosive round of applause followed.

"And thanks to my dear suffering father," Dib continued, "who has put up with me all these years, and thought me doomed to live the life of a bachelor!"

The professor clapped heartily. Gaz rolled her eyes.

Dib said some more things and thanked the supporters of the wedding, and so on and so forth before the groom made a toast: - that strange ritual-thing the pair of them did at the dinner table whenever it suited them - and suddenly Dib was winking at him.

The Irken stared back, clueless.

Membrane gave the little bug a curious, if slightly amused look. "Zim, my boy! I do hope you have your speech ready! He's calling you up!" He gave him such a hearty pat on the back that it made the fluids in his tube almost slurp backwards.

 _The speech! That lousy speech!_

Dib sat back down, waiting anxiously.

Zim wobbly stood up on his chair and everyone looked his way: a small army of humans with their thousands of staring eyes. They would judge every word, every move, every breath.

It wasn't the audience he had intended. They weren't bowing or worshipping him - but they were all looking _to_ him - awaiting his word.

He had been endowed with this one rite in this magical procession and by Irk he was going to show them!

He coughed some and uncrumpled the bit of paper in the shaky claws of his one hand.

"Urm...to the happy...urm...mated couple..." He started nervously, fearing his stutter would make a fool of him, "I s-send you my disgusting c-congratulations. I hope it is a... sufficient bonding, doomed as you are to have lots of revolting worm babies together." There were a few murmurs as humans started to whisper to one another in the eerie quiet. Gaz was looking at him, and trying not to laugh. "May you frolic happily like goats or something. Just don't be noisy about it." His eyes searched down the page. "I hate you both so s-so much, as I will inevitably have to put up with more of your stinky affairs after this awful day. Just don't forget who's in charge."

He took a croaky breath and folded the paper. Everyone was silent. He looked around at the many upturned faces, now fearing them. Had he said too much, or too little? Where had he gone wrong? Even Dib looked pale as if Zim had peeled back his disguise in front of them.

Suddenly the mass of humans erupted into laughter. He looked across to Clara who sat at Dib's side at this elaborate 'royal' table. She was smiling.

Zim nervously stooped back down, sitting on the chair as his cheeks burned.

"You did spectacularly." Gaz was all grins.

"Now _that's_ how you deliver a speech!" The professor clapped Zim on the shoulder again. "A toast! To such a funny family!"

Zim lifted up his wine glass even though it was filled with orange juice, and chinked it with the others. He really wanted the alcohol, a barrel of it (and a barrel might make him woozy enough to relax) but it would not agree with his discordant body.

The humans drew back their wine glasses and drank like devout acolytes drinking from the holy chalice.

As he sat, listening to the snippets of banter and the musicians playing their droll music, he wondered why he was here at all.

He looked over at Dib and Clara with glares of plain envy.

"So, what's your next project?" Gaz asked her father.

"I'm off to Canada for a month." He winked at Zim suddenly. The Irken hated it when he winked. He never knew what it was supposed to mean. "So you, my little green friend, had better keep out of trouble! No experimenting with that life-support of yours! No tackling those stairs! And! I expect a fully fortified castle for a house when I get back! My son always needed a bit of extra security!"

"What's in Can-ida?" Zim asked, squeezing a laugh out of Gaz for his mispronunciation.

"Oh, the usual. A group of scientists are installing new energy saving systems that _I_ have invented." And he briefly plonked his hands on the table. "They want me to oversee the event! It's criminal that they can't do it themselves, but there you have it!" He gave another chuckle as if everything had its own private joke for him to laugh at. "Oh, and Zim! Remember to widen the cockpit just a smidgen! Human beings are much bigger, I must add! And here! In case anyone ever need invulnerability!" He presented to him a little blue badge in the shape of a shield. Embellished on it were the letters AS.

 _The Adamantine Shield...*_ Zim's eyes widened.

"Cockpit?" Gaz asked, one eye sliding up into a mistrustful glare.

The professor snaked an arm around them both, and squeezed them close. Zim gasped for air. Gaz looked like she'd just been punched. "Ah I do so love my crazy family!"

As he was being crushed, Zim spied around, eager to catch Dib's hopeful eye. Instead he saw that same man again at another table, staring openly from those dark drains, where, just for a moment, he could hear the rain. The elderly Irken looked away. There was something he thought he knew, but when his mind scrabbled at the memory it evaded him just as quickly. His military senses had never rang out at him so painfully in some time. A wailing transmission from a planet in need of aid would have made less noise.

"Zim! I very nearly forgot in all the excitement!" The kindly protector relinquished his grip on the Irken so that the poor thing could start breathing again. "I have been analyzing the chemical changes in your blood work. From the results, I have crafted a little medicinal agent to help your recovery after a seizure." He slipped a vial of white into Zim's claws. "After you've had a seizure, drink the whole vial. It'll do you good. I just have the one at the moment. I will make more once I arrive back home, so use it _wisely."_

Zim held the glass vial close to his squinting eyes, his upper lip lifting. He didn't have seizures! What use was this to him? It was just another hopeless drug, another vile thing to put up with and swallow!

"Here, put it away in your pocket and don't forget it!"

"Since when did the two of you get so damn chummy?" Gaz asked, her chin resting on the palm of her hand. Her amber eyes were as hard as gold.

"He's been a friend of the family for years, dear daughter."

Gaz's smile deepened. "Apparently so. Can't wait to see how invested Zim will be once this baby arrives. Right Zim?"

She saw his expression predictably darken.

He looked for Clara and Dib in the bedlam. It wasn't hard to mistake the long, furled white and gold dress as she walked with a tiara on her head. Despite having the high honour of being the centre of attention she looked out of place. She was flushed, and looked overwhelmed, to the point of discomfort. He was not the only one struggling with crowds and people it seemed. He was about to leave his seat and go to her when she called for Dib who was busy chatting to a group of old school friends. Zim watched.

Clara made a heart-shaped gesture with her hands, and Dib strangely nodded in understanding. Then, he was coming over. Once he'd reached the table, his eyes glossed over everybody as he spoke to his father. "Can we talk for a second, in private?"

The professor seemed surprised. "Oh! But of course!"

Zim frowned. What were they plotting this time?

When they left, Gaz took this opportunity to mob the elderly bug with questions. "So, how _did_ Clara take it when she discovered the obvious?" She waited as he continued to avoid eye contact. "What do you think of her? She's a bit of a clumsy waif. How do they handle your chaos?"

Zim watched the two Membranes talk under the shadow of an awning. He could not hear what they were saying above the rabble, and they were too far away anyhow. There was a lot of gesturing. The professor nodding, then shaking his head. Dib was crossing his arms, eyes squinting behind his glasses.

"Are you deaf?" Gaz quipped angrily at him.

The professor laid hands on his son's shoulders, shadows from the tree playing on their profiles, Dib still appearing prostrated – like he'd just tasted unsavoury news. Then it was over, too soon it seemed, and the professor returned and sat back down.

"What did my brother want?" Gaz asked.

"Oh nothing dear, nothing." But the professor sounded distracted, with none of his usual cheer.

A shadow floated over the table. Zim felt a chill brush through his chest as he looked into those drains. He fell into them, and moments after his shoulders and chest were heaving with the effort to breathe.

The chagrin in the grey man's eyes brightened and he threw a calloused hand down on the table, causing cutlery and glasses to nervously clank and chatter. "Do you realize there's an alien sitting amongst you?" The man's rough voice was seasoned with alcohol. The brim of his hat brooded over his ice cold eyes.

Membrane, Gaz and the other guests at the table looked innocently around them. The professor even looked under the ivory silk of the table.

"Are you all blind?" He pointed at Zim. His finger may as well have been a gun.

The Irken's eyes bulged behind the contacts and his heart started sickly pounding.

The professor brought a fatherly arm around him. "This is my little green child!"

This was the moment where he should be running for the hills, but he had no strength in his legs, and no breath to take him there. The only option left was to hide. "It's a disguise!" The man growled, still pointing, "Take off that wig and it'll reveal those ugly antennae!"

"Dear me, what a terrible thing to say!" Membrane remarked, calm and collected. "He was born with a skin condition! So please – do not torment the poor boy!"

"Who invited you anyway?" Gaz snapped, "Get out of here!"

The man lowered his fedora a moment, his shoulders tightening as if he was about to laugh, or cry or rage. Both hands were braced on the table. When he slowly lifted his eyes to them, his face assumed the cold narrow look of a man who had many promises to keep.

"That _thing_ is _not_ a child! It's a monster. A monster that destroys lives!" He looked to each of them in turn. "Why? Why do you defend it?"

Air rushed in and out of Zim's lungs in shaky strokes, but nothing was getting in. Frost crept along his skin.

"Easy." Came the professor's soft whisper.

The man sidestepped round the table, to perhaps demonstrate his case and pluck off each piece of his disguise, but the professor moved Zim onto his lap where he was protected by an arm at either side.

"One more example of your disorderly conduct and I'll have no other choice but to summon the authorities!" The scientist warned in a firmer tone.

"That means the cops, you creep." Gaz added.

The man paused, knowing he was temporarily outmatched: and aware that he had had a run-in with the cops before.

Making a deprecating gesture, he turned and stalked off, hands rammed into his pant pockets.

Gaz gave a snigger. "You sure you didn't have another son?" She asked her dad. "It was like listening to the old Dib all over again."

Membrane hardly heard her as he warmly rubbed a hand on Zim's shoulders and chest to try and console him and his aggravated breathing. His gasps were hyperventilating squeaks. "All's well. You can relax."

As if stubborn clouds had finally parted, allowing a ray of sunshine to unfurl, so too did his memory.

" _You dirty little monster! More dangerous than you look, aren't ya? Well, that's okay. You just lay right there while I call for some backup."_

The man with the fedora had cornered him at the chain link fence, and held him down using the end of an umbrella in the pouring rain.

With each pitiful sip of air the agony expanded.

The world had leapt back a step, allowing a grey numbness to fill the lines between.

They were all watching him.

His chest drew in and out. Air came unsullied and clean into his lungs, the pain fainter. Zim shyly looked up and saw faces trying not to look at him, but looking anyway.

Gaz's cold steeliness had softened.

The conversation at the table started off slow and tentative, as if the intrusive man and Zim's panic attack had chilled the mood, but with everyone else drinking, laughing and talking, the atmosphere soon picked up, and Zim was back in his separate bubble again, eyes dropping to the nether. Sometimes he flicked his eyes around for that grey man, a crow amongst squawking starlings. He thought he saw him leaning against the stage, or by a tree. Looking again confirmed that they were only shadows.

He unclipped the hearing aid and dragged it out from beneath his wig. Without it, the world sounded less abrasive and more cottony. The chatter of humans was even more distant, increasing his feelings of displacement.

The professor slapped his knees with the telling of another anecdote as if it had never happened. Gaz was nodding her head, her eyes on her phone. This Claudia and Hugh couple were smiling and nodding appreciatively with slightly bemused looks on their faces.

 _What am I waiting for?_

All he had to do was move those stubborn feet and go.

He gazed forlornly inwards.

The judging eyes of his peers had always sullied him: each Irken taller and stronger than he. He had never felt _part_ of the collective: only ever as a singular entity fighting to earn his place. He was never as strong. Never as tall. Bravery didn't cut it. Resolve didn't cut it.

The former soldier gazed up at the silky blue of the sky, and at the strange mauves and greens of the Northern Lights. He could not set aside the menace he felt, the feeling that _something_ was coming.

The man with the fedora had opened up dark ways of the old. He could not guard against it. Anymore.

"Zim?"

He blinked, mind tuning-in on reality's wavelength. "Y-Yes?"

The professor was looking kindly at him. "Has your sleep been any better? Dib says that you've been getting very breathless at night."

"It's j-j-just a p-phase." He said without really paying attention, his eyes on the Northern Lights.

Dib was offering Clare to dance with him. Their prostrated expressions had softened, and easier smiles adorned their faces as their limbs intertwined. They did not seem to care, or notice him.

The professor, aptly getting engrossed with topics of science, went off on another discussion too heavy for his listeners at the table, for they nodded, smiling in a confused, bewildered way. Quietly, Zim slipped off the chair with the doll in tow, looking back the once to see if the scientist had cottoned on.

He walked across the lawn with that stiff stride, heading towards the stage in the hopes he could sneak behind it and consequently drop from Membrane's radar.

He went around the stage in a wide circle, doing his utmost to avoid every human being. Gir was being dragged along behind, and was soon blotchy with grass stains.

The lake grew larger and brighter as he approached it. The day was hot, the clouds few and far, and the sun made the vast body of water shine in an almost painful glare. He kept to a healthy distance from the water's edge, peering at the birds bathing in its blue centre.

He found a shadowy spot under a gangly maple and sat down. Getting away from the frantic hubbub allowed him a moment to catch his breath. The parade of noise and cheer continued behind him, but it was much more bearable.

He dragged out the white vial from his velvet pocket, turning it over in his one hand after letting Gir sag to the grass. He eyed the lake, then stood up and threw the vial as hard as he could at the vast body of water. It broke the reflective surface, casting huge ripples as the medicine bounced once before plopping into the depths.

 _I'm strong_. He thought, claws clenching into a trembling fist.

Warily, he approached the water's edge. It shimmered with the treacherous beauty of the Northern Lights, his reflection tempered by the sun above.

He gazed over the lake and towards the sprawling metropolis beyond. Could he remember where his house resided in that dismal, noisy city? Its glow had always lured him back from the brink of every defeat and every disastrous mission. He never had to look far to see it.

As a lighthouse's beacon drew in ships, his home drew him back to safety.

 _This is your chance! Your moment! Stop being so pensive! Use your rage! Whatever you have left!_

The soldier inside – the one that had been forged in blood and battle – could still be turned aside. He may give in, and pale his thunder in the wake of his leaders, for soldiers were loyal, faithful, dependable. He was no renegade. Grief sat on the throne of his castle, left to survey the damage.

There were too many bludgeoning things to feel, think of, and reconcile, each one pushing and pulling at him.

In his periphery he noticed someone looming behind him. Zim turned round instantly in order to appear less diminutive and less frail, angry that he couldn't get one minute alone. "Membrane!" He started, then stopped, face falling.

The man wearing the black fedora was looking down at him silently. The tails of his frock coat flapped in the wind coming in over the lake, his eyes silvery. One hand was hidden in his pant pocket; the other was hanging freely at his side. And in that hand was his doll.

"How do you fool them?" He imperturbably asked without expression. His face was the face of a mask, but his eyes were bright with wrath. He took a step closer. Zim reacted by falling back a step. "What tricks do you use? Do you fool them with magic? Charm? What is it? I'd like to know." He took another step - Zim maintaining the distance by retreating two more steps.

"G-Give him back!"

"Oh, this?" He held the doll up to those burning eyes of his a moment, looking it over like it was a magical amulet hiding a secret. "Why is it so important to you?"

"I said g-give him b-back, fool!"

"And what if I don't? Will that make you sad, angry? Hurt? If you take away what belongs to me, I can take away what belongs to you. I'd say that's fair, though a doll is hardly worthy of such a trade, is it?"

"W-What are you yabbering on about?"

"How can you deal so much damage, and not _know_ about it?" The man stepped towards him, and when Zim reactively walked back, his boot splashed into water. He snapped around, realizing there was nowhere else to go. "Why do you do it? Tell me that!"

"D-Do what?"

"Don't pretend you don't know!"

Zim's eyes darted to and fro, and thought of feinting to one side before changing direction at the last second, but the man looked ready to leap and grab him. He took another step into the water. Liquid rose to the ankles, and began to trickle over the boot rim.

"Lift off your wig and eye contacts." Growled the man. "Let them see what you truly are."

The water behind him was the wire fence. The doll being squeezed in the man's hand was an embodiment of failure and futility. This time there was no hole in the fence to slip through, no PAK to keep the enemy at bay.

Inside. He was sinking. Plunging down into colder depths.

He caught sight of someone running towards them, and his eyes widened.

"What is going on?" Gaz was barely out of breath, her pale cheeks reddening through the coldness of her exterior. The thin man gave her a grainy look, his eyes flashing to her and then back to Zim who stood, ankle deep in lake water. She went right up to him and jabbed a finger into the man's chest. "What are you hanging around here for? You were told to leave!"

Anger flashed through those silvery eyes as they glared at each other. It happened in a moment. He snapped out a kick, and sent Gaz sprawling across the grass.

Someone else saw it happen, for there was a distinct 'HEY!' from within the crowd.

Just as Gaz was getting up, he watched the man hurrying away, pushing past people in his retreat. Friends and family were pointing and staring. She calmly stood up; brushing herself off, but Zim noticed her face slowly change as shock came over her.

A boot print had been stamped onto her black and purple dress.

"What are you still doing, standing there?" She trod through water, clasped her hand over his, and pulled him forwards.

Water splashed up his pant leg. He could feel his toes and leg uncomfortably burn.

When he was back on dry land however, he started searching frantically in the grass and around the old maple. "G-Gir! He's taken Gir!"

"Gir? You mean, your little dollie? Oh come on Zim! Since when did you start carrying around dolls?"

He wildly looked for the man, but his short stature afforded him no relief.

He twirled slowly on the spot as if he was stuck at a crossroads.

Gaz watched in complete surprise, having never seen him act this way.

The wig piece slipped off, revealing the shredded antenna.

This was an Irken cruelly bent by time and grief.

His skin was grey and shiny with sweat. There was no direction anymore in those watery eyes. An old frail thing shivered in that formal suit. The Zim she remembered was a fading illusion, something sometimes caught, or seen for an instant, but he was never really there.

-x-

The Alien sat openly among them, hiding beneath a second-rate disguise that was shockingly minimalistic: just eye contacts and a wig. He was sitting next to the prestigious Professor Membrane, the one running the city's electricity and power, and the one financing every wonderful invention that eased the living conditions for mankind. Gary knew this, not only because Dib carried the prestigious family name, but because he was often on the cover of newspapers and magazines.

Zim was continually safely guarded. When he had stormed over, he could get no closer, not even to rip off the creature's disguise.

He gave them perfect reason to suspect the thing they harboured, and yet they defied him.

"Uncle? I'm thirsty." Mary complained. She kept wandering off, and making things more complicated. He regretted bringing her.

Staying calm and composed became nearly impossible to manage. It took every drop of willpower to keep from tipping over their table and grabbing the thing. He would not get far. The professor had that look about him; as a white bear looked at a seal.

He had been chasing the creature's shadowy existence for months, slowly coming to the belief that it was either dead, or that it had destroyed its tracks as a means to stay hidden as it moved from nation to nation. Turns out, it had gone nowhere, and walked among them in a mundane way that turned his stomach.

HOW did they not know it was a thing from another planet? HOW did they not know what it was doing to humanity?

And how could such a thing fool the prestigious professor?

Hatred rose.

 _If_ he could hold it together, _if_ he could manage his despotic rage for another few hours, he might have an opportunity to follow the creature to its lair. Every idea he had on the table, but he didn't know what to decide on first while his brain raced.

Then –- an opportunity had landed in his lap.

The alien had stepped away from company – from protection – and stood impossibly alone by the lake's shore.

A stuffed toy had been left by the trunk of a tree. He had seen the alien carry it around as if it held sentimental value.

Another thing to note: this _Zim_ didn't look as healthy as before, and appeared fraught, like a stabled horse that could sense thunder on the approach. A cast cocooned his right arm and there was bruising along the right side of his eye and face.

A curious additional blue tube had sat atop the otherworldly metal device on its back. He was pretty sure it hadn't been there before. The spider-leg things had been far more memorable in their horrific splendour. He was aware of them, aware that the alien could slip them out as quickly as one would snap their fingers.

Hardly any recognition of the incident involving the deaths of hundreds came to the creature. He'd missed the moment to say more. Gaz spoiled that moment.

He should have slipped the gun out from his belt and shot the damn thing, but Mary was here, damn it all, and he didn't want her to see.

He turned the doll over and over in his hands, looking for a hidden compartment, or whatever it was that made it special to the alien. It carried that home-made look to it, with a stitched mouth, cartoony eyes and a floppy felt body.

"That's the green boy's doll, isn't it?" Mary asked.

"Not anymore. Let's go. You can wait in the car." He grabbed her hand and pulled her away from the ceremony.

"But I'm thirsty!"

The afternoon waned. The sky grew rich with red undertones as the sun drew lower. People started to say their farewells.

Dib, wearing his slender dark tux was saying a few words, clutching hands with some, and patting others on the shoulder. Clara was not hard to miss either. You couldn't be subtle in a big white wedding dress.

Used to a bit of detective work thanks to his ghost-and-alien-hunting career, he strode through the parking lot, looking for that banged up Toyota. When he found it, he could hardly believe it was the same one, but the dents and bent fender were unmistakable. Couldn't they have hired a limousine? It wasn't like Dib _couldn't_ afford it.

"Tight bastard." He muttered under his breath. If Clara had been his bride, he would have hired a goddamn super car to take her wherever she wanted to go. His own marriage had been a bit of a budget deal, but they'd been happy, all the same.

He was about to go back to the street and get into his own car when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. It caused him to jump. Spinning around, thinking only of the gun he carried, he laid eyes on the tall profile of the established professor in his offensively white coat.

"Young man." Said the professor in an orderly voice. "I do believe you have something that doesn't belong to you."

Gary stammered, having not quite worked out how the professor had got behind him so soundlessly.

"Hand it over." The man reached out with a hand expectantly.

It was no secret. The doll kinda drooped out of his pocket.

It seemed pointless to fight over the thing made of stuffing and felt, so he pulled it out of his pocket, cheeks reddening, and handed it over. "Found it." He said tightly.

"Yes well, it belongs to someone. Thank you for returning it." The professor nodded his gratitude, turned and walked away without further ado. Gary glowered there, jaws tight.

He got into his car. Mary was asleep on the backseat. He drove to the parking lot; sliding his car two rows behind the Toyota. He quitted the engine, plucked up a bottle of whiskey from beneath his seat and took a gulp.

Every nerve and muscle in his body was jumpy. He had to _think,_ and he had to plan. Shooting the alien was easy, and sitting in a jail cell was no big deal. Securing it, alive was the hardest part.

He just needed a few hours alone with it, to know what it knew, and to discover its powers. Aliens had powers, and abilities beyond human comprehension. If they had helped build the pyramids, and taught the Incas technology, then they could return someone of flesh and blood.

He sat behind the steering wheel, coiled and tense. Weddings took forever to end.

Time passed as he studiously watched, the brow of his fedora low over his eyes when he finally saw the wedding couple and their green creature.

Dib opened the car door for the bride. She squeezed into the back due of her long voluminous dress. The alien was slow to follow. He had a subtle limp in that left leg. Then he turned, looked round, eyes hovering briefly towards Gary's car.

His hand clutched the grip of the steering wheel, sweat running down his face.

Minutes later, the smoking and growling Toyota was leaving the parking lot.

Cranking the handbrake, engine softly grumbling, he took to the lane, following them as closely as he dared. The traffic was light for this time of evening, and he was able to keep a good distance whilst keeping them in sight.

The car indicated to turn right at the next set of traffic lights. Gary slowed and then braked one car behind them. Once the lights had turned green, the Toyota turned sharply, and picked up speed. Again he followed, and kept to an easy speed to remain behind. He let other cars pass him.

It was dark by the time the Toyota parked in front of a house. Gary reversed – luckily there was nothing coming up behind him, and he parked behind someone's white Audi. He turned the engine off, cutting the power to his headlights. He watched the lean profile of Dib get out of the car and open the rear door for his new wife. They stood together briefly for a moment while Zim slunk out of the other door. The little invader looked around, eyes flashing over to Gary's car for a moment, and the Audi in front of it.

He was quite a prudent observer. Gary supposed he had to be, as he was a trespasser on this planet.

Dib fumbled with the house keys in the same way he fumbled with every set of keys to any haunted mansion or other various posts they'd attended during their career together. Gary watched from the car window, unable to hold the hate.

Dib let the two of them go through the door. He took up the rear, and the door closed.

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

It was a nice place, sitting on the edge of the suburb and away from the chaos of the city. It wasn't exactly the mansion he had mentally depicted, and was fairly modest for a rich boy's standards. And it had a balcony. His home didn't have a balcony.

As his dark eyes brooded on such a pretty home, he soon noticed the adamantine levels of security.

He'd have to take a closer look.

He rubbed at the sweat on his forehead, causing the fedora to slope back a little on the crown of his head. What was an alien doing with this couple? Had it brainwashed them? Hypnotized them to be its slaves?

There was nothing stopping Gary from calling the cops using some bogus name from a bogus number. Just feign any old disaster or even declare domestic abuse, and the cops would come running, which _might_ force the alien into the open. It felt good to have that leverage – that power.

After awhile, the lights in the house went out one by one.

He turned in his seat to see Mary still sleeping.

He opened the car door and staggered out onto the sidewalk. Remembering to take his phone and flashlight, he locked the car and walked briskly across the road towards the house.

He made sure to keep his distance. He did not want to be seen from the cameras, and many of them there were, all stationed over the door like sentry turrets. Some were at funny angles – pointing directly down in a menacing way, or straight up. Others pointed down the length of the front yard. A red light was blinking above the main door, and he had no idea what this meant.

Even the eave above the door was armoured in cameras. There was barely a breadth of lintel between them. On the front step there was a motion sensor. He could see the little red light. Not a lot of people had those, even store owners. This was military-grade security.

His shoulders slumped when the adrenaline tapered to a trickle, and his flinty grey eyes turned away for a moment. He noticed a stone on the path. He picked it up and threw it at the front lawn. The red light steadied into a solid colour, and he could hear a siren go off in the house.

He stepped away and hurried to the car. When he got back in he saw a light flicker in one of the upstairs rooms. A figure moved behind the curtain, but there was no more activity.

Going in and out of that house was going to be a lot harder than he'd imagined.

The trick was to grab the alien when he was _outside_ the house, and outside this ridiculous level of security, but how often would an alien take a stroll?

Ah, but there _was_ an opportunity! Clara.

Clara was pregnant. Clara would have a child.

And sooner or later that was when he'd make his move.

* * *

 **Dib07** : * _The Adamantine Shield, also known as AS, was an invention Zim discovered during his wanderings in the professor's lab way back in the late chapters of 'Saving Zim.' It's been omitted from the FFN upload, but if anyone is interested I can add it to the lower portion of this chapter (but it is, ya know, just a minor thing really, and I also omitted the part when Gaz came round before the wedding day. I think that's everything. Have a lovely day, all!_


	10. Catalyst

**Saving Zim: Epilogue by Dib07**

 ** _Summary:_**

 _ **Zim is wary of 'happiness' and life without missions. Coming to terms with his new family and illness, he doesn't know what purpose he should serve. A threat determines Irken existence, with the Enemy tempting him with a chance to regain redemption. Removing the chains that made him is the hardest of all. Drifting far beyond the edge, everything becomes uncertain on the other side.**_

 _ **Disclaimer:**_

 _I do not own the IZ characters. However this story and this idea is mine._

 _Cover art beautifully made by_ _Truekrisstianity!_ _All credit goes to her,_ _please do not use without his permission, thank you :)_

 ** _Warnings:_**

 _This story._

* * *

 **Dib07:** God help me, why do I keep updating? This chapter contains some fun as well as plot. I don't know how often I will be updating due to my busy schedule, as I need to reply to your inspiring messages/reviews foremost (yes I am slow! XD) I am really sorry for the delay. I promise to get round to you as soon as I can! In the meantime, I've dished this chapter out! Gods... here we go again...

I'd like to send a MASSIVE thank you for all your support, it means a lot, and keeps my insanity going!

 **Guest:**

Hello there! Hope this chapter is pretty cool too! Thanks for the feedback! I am so happy you are enjoying this! :3

 **EagleQuill66:**

Oooh OHH! You treasure! I can't get over your review, it means so MUCH to me! I hope this latest chapter feeds you as it fed me way back when I wrote it! I just adore/ love their characters from the show, and will do anything and everything to keep their spirit intact - with the additional predicaments of aging, morality and life's all-too-common hardships. Sharing this story has never been easy, but when I get lovely comments from you Eagle, it makes it all worth it! Thank you, thank you! ^_^

* * *

 **Chapter 10: Catalyst**

 _'Every step leads towards the dream_  
 _The future where we all are free'_

 _All for One - Hidden Citizens_

He felt a weight on his chest, and his eyes flew open only to moan in realization. He tried to turn over, and his retreat was met by sharp pokes to his shoulder. "Time to go to work, Dib Stink." Came the scratchy demand. "No more baby sleep for you!"

He tried to reach blindly for his glasses on the nightstand and knocked something over. His yawn was an incomprehensible muffle of words: "What time is it?"

"Later t-than it should be. Get up!" The tetchy squeal went up a notch as claws pushed harder against his side.

He did not want to become an Irken's scratching post. "Five more minutes..." He turned over and sunk into the pillow where it was warm and soft. There was an empty space beside him where his new 'wife' had got up and left sometime before.

"Pathetic worms don't get f-five more minutes! So. Get. Up!"

"You're a tyrant." He groaned into the pillow. "Who needs an alarm clock with you around? I knew I should have gone to the Animal Shelter and picked a less argumentative breed of cat."

Claws nettled his arm. Having only one hand was causing Zim no trouble. "Do you know that you snore?"

"Not half as much as you." The Irken had crept into their room late at night, shoving them both aside as he made room for himself in the middle. Perhaps, ultimately, he regretted his decision. Clara, thinking of him as a plushie, or part of her new husband, had entwined her arms about him, crushing him tight, and trapping him for the rest of the night.

Dib sat up, causing Zim to slide down onto the coverlets. "I'm up, I'm up." He blinked, trying to get his eyes to focus. "Just as well I love waking up to your grumpy face." Darting out a hand he fumbled through the items on the nightstand in a fruitless quest to find his glasses. It took him a slow, stupid moment to realize that Zim was trying them on. Without an exterior nose they kept slipping down his smooth face.

"How do you _see_ with these things? Ocular implants are a speciality of mine. You'll barely feel a thing." And he bobbed them up and down in his one hand teasingly. Dib grabbed them before the Irken got any ideas and slipped them over his nose. Zim snorted in amusement when he watched his long black scythe of hair fall in front of his eyes. Dib wearily combed it back again.

Before he could leave the bed, the former soldier slapped something around his wrist that automatically attached itself. He sleepily blinked down at this strange, blinking wristwatch-thing. "What the...?"

Zim placed his good hand on his hip. "I need to track you humans at all times." He said as if this was customary. "Be grateful that it's the humane version!"

"And Clara?"

"Already wearing one. She didn't fuss half as much!"

"A tracker, huh? So long as it doesn't detonate, Zim. You know how I feel about explosives."

"You'll just have to be good, won't you?" He purred.

Rubbing his eyes, Dib pushed himself out of bed. A quick peek at the bedside clock revealed that it was a little past six in the morning. He gave the watch-thing another tired inspection. "What's the rush, space jerk? Are you _that_ excited to do perimeter checks?" He looked mildly at him, raising an eyebrow. "Let's get some breakfast first, okay? You're still on painkillers, little guy. Remember to take it easy."

Zim wrapped a thin arm about himself, cuddling the purple robe to his chest - and felt the offensive bulk of the cast. He squirmed a little, eager to get underway while his humans dallied over things like 'dressing' and 'breakfast.' "How many meals do you humans eat a day? I don't want to be fat like you!"

"You wanna stay a skinny roach the rest of your life?" He said. The former Elite gave him a vexed scowl in turn. Crossing his arms didn't work when he had a cast in the way. "It won't kill you to eat it, Zim. You do realize that food gives you energy, right? It'll feed those villainous smarts of yours."

"But Clara's g-getting fat."

Dib _almost_ let slip laughter, and hoped to God this conversation wouldn't reach her ear. "That's because of the baby. It's gotta make room." Zim just stared, his expression blank. "Once she has the baby, her belly will shrink."

"And how will she dispense of this smeet-product?"

Dib scratched the back of his head, looking immutably regretful that they were having this discussion. He could just sit Zim in front of a video clip of a woman giving birth, and that may scar the bug for the rest of his life. It might even scar _him_ for life, but at least it would shut the bug up for two seconds. "You know? From her... urm..." He winced. "I'll tell you after you've eaten, deal?" It was a plus if Zim happened to forget.

"Fine." He cocked one eye at him, the tip of whitening right antenna rising. "You still here?"

"Hey! This is _my_ bedroom!" He went to put his slippers on when a small rat-like creature appeared from under the bed. Dib jumped back into the wardrobe. "What the hell...?"

"Eh?"

It shot out from under the bed. Another glimpse revealed that it was a possum with black tipped ears and a fuzzy white coat. It ran out the door, Dib half-heartedly chasing it. A slip of tail disappeared into Zim's room. He tore through the door to see a kitten washing itself on the little lavender bed.

He cupped a hand to his nose when he felt a sneeze coming on. "Zim?" He called, "Why are there animals in the house?"

"What?!" Came the croaky shout.

"Where are they coming from?" He couldn't see the possum, so he picked up the tabby kitten by the scruff of its neck and took it down stairs, holding it out as if it was a grenade. He opened the back door and plopped the kitten on the porch. "Go on! Go home!" He said, waving his hands at it. The kitten merely sat down and started meowing. He shut the door and turned round to see a ferret licking meat juices out of a saucer on the kitchen floor. "Clara!"

"What's with the yelling?" She appeared in the kitchen doorway, her hair uncombed, her eyes blemished with shadow. Arms were hugged about her as if the house was freezing cold.

At the sight of her exhaustion, his tone softened. "Do you have anything to do with these animals?" And he gestured at the ferret that was sniffing for more scraps.

"Maybe a window was left open." And she shrugged. Her lack of surprise said it all.

"Ah huh." He replied with dawning realization. "How many uninvited animals are we dealing with?"

"Just a few. Coffee?"

Dib's slippers made shuffling sounds as he headed into the lounge. A grey squirrel sitting on the sofa chatted irritably at his intrusion. Unsure of what to do, he backed out, sneezing into his hand.

-x-

The yelping paperboy tore up the road at speed, a blazing trail of smoke marking his passage. Dib was out the door after yanking and hitting buttons and knobs and levers, and stared at the turret by the door. Its pivots whined as the turret's muzzle turned to face him, a tiny camera perched on top. "Zim!" His cheeks went red. He grabbed the apparatus by the joints, trying to find a way to unloosen them and topple the construct. Gnomes with lasers would have been forbidden too, but at least they were less conspicuous.

"What's g-going on?" Zim peeped out, a shawl over his head to help cover his eyes and antennae. Despite the midday heat and effervescent sun melting this part of the world in summer, he was wearing his turtleneck sweater. Only when the grass was on fire could Dib see him stripping down to a shirt.

"You can't have turrets out here! And you can't set mailmen on fire!"

"Every stinkin' day I have to put up with them!"

"That's because the mailman delivers mail! Look! Change it to something more... neutral! Like water or something!" He shepherded Zim back inside, almost tripping over the Gir doll that had been left in the doorway. "No more weapons, Fudge. Make something more... creative, with less of the destruction! By the way you're my adopted child now! The papers came through! So listen to your fucking dad!"

"I'm not your child! You're _my_ child!"

Dib manoeuvred him out of the way and closed the door that dutifully cosseted itself with copious locks before stomping back to the laptop that he had left out on the garden table. There hadn't been as much time to stargaze, and the laptop had been neglected in favour of maintaining connubial responsibilities.

Nostalgia had tempted him to bring it out under the painted blues and greens of the Northern Lights. The outdated miniature satellite was perched alongside as electromagnetic waves rippled across the screen like sound oscillations in the ocean. Either the magnetism from the Aurora Borealis was interfering, or the satellite was picking up on something else. Human interference was common. Orbital satellites were picked up, or space debris that was sending off signals to its separated host. He had learned over time which signals were customary, and what warranted further study.

He was rubbing his forehead and temples when another sneeze burst out. Since the 'arrival' of the 'animal-invasion' his eyes had continuously watered, with sneezes randomly exploding out of him.

New lines appeared, zig-zagging over the usual oscillations. He slipped the headphones snugly over his ears to listen. Discoveries like this usually had him enthralled and jittery, but experience taught him that natural elements, such as radiation, cosmic interference, solar winds and aberrations from the sun could cause alien-like sounds and atypical readings. His father had shown him that translating these sounds into numbers revealed if there was any intelligence behind the noise.

His eyes darted to the surging digits. A resonance: deep and esoteric thrummed through the speakers, making his eyes water. He pushed off the headphones, staring at the uncontested lines as they snapped up and down. His laptop couldn't unscramble it. The cosmos emitted strange and monstrous sounds as distant stars collapsed - as black holes sucked in all life into its absolving core.

He left the laptop to slip into the commanding chair of the ship. The transition from bright sunshine to the dark confines of the cabin made him pitch his eyes shut at a sudden headache. "Ship! Is there any cosmic interference?"

"Magnetic interference detected." Tak's voice replied primly. "Unusual distillations within the noise."

"I've never heard anything like it before. My laptop was sending out a strange code. Does it mean anything?"

"Possible radiation output."

"Has it always been there?"

"No."

Dib leaned back, unable to conceal the frown that appeared. He walked into the overly bright sunlight, having to throw an arm up to shield his eyes while the Aurora pulsed out exotic indigoes and greens. Even against the vivid blue of summer, it pierced straight through.

His glasses drank in the gold of summer as he went straight into Zim. The bug was so little that he was frequently overlooked. "Don't walk all over me!"

"Sorry! I wasn't looking..."

"I noticed. It's not easy doing perimeter checks with so much of you in the way!" There was white fluff on the collar of his turtleneck sweater, and some fluff on the Gir doll as it hung down from his claws. Another kitten – a tabby like the one he had ceremoniously dumped outside – was washing itself on the garden lawn.

"Zim. Can you take a look at something? My laptop's picking up something, and so is the ship."

"It's nothing." His right antenna dropped as he looked away, squinting at some vague area of the backyard.

"Have you even listened to it?"

"It's that... eh... light show in the sky. It's scrambling everything."

"Zim, you've heard it, haven't you?"

The Irken waved him off as he went to walk away, evidently finding his other duties more important. "And what do you want me to do about it Dib? Are you going to go to the trouble of building a new hi-tech base so that I can decipher every little scary cosmic noise that troubles y-you? It's probably some planet farting out gas – or a distant star being fumigated by the great and brilliant Irken race!"

"So you don't think it's... alien?"

"I would know. I've heard every distress call, garbled message or transmitted fart from every filthy race this universe has ever spawned."

Dib rubbed at his forehead - the pain behind his eyes stubbornly remaining.

He looked to the curtains of pulsing light beneath the sun's baleful gaze. Perhaps it was just shifting electromagnetism, or the cosmos was being particularly rowdy this side of the galaxy.

"Dib beast?" Zim turned to him, seeing that the human was still gawping up at the sky. "Are you coming? The ship isn't going to repair itself!"

The human lowered his gaze as the faint breeze made the flowers dip and nod. Zim stood, his one antenna cocked, eyelids drawn low to mirror the tired creases under his eyes. Dib started towards him, putting his hands in his pockets to try and hide the tension.

-x-

Doing everything one-handed was a royal pain, but surrendering control to the Dib proved to be an even bigger pain.

The former invader did his rounds in the nautical fashion, taking note of every millimetre of repair work with a disapproving scowl.

Dib was in that inevitable working position, lying flat on his back as he toiled at the ship's inner seams to patch up the last of the leaks with tubes dangling over him like jungle vines. Oily smears stained his face, hands and clothing, and his knuckles and fingers were raw with cuts and bruises. The human never had the sense to wear gloves.

Manual ship work was a delicate and laborious process that held little room for error. One had to know how things lined up, how perfectly a component had to be coupled, and how interconnected every part needed to be to efficiently serve the other. Irken engineering demanded an equal sum of understanding. The human did not have this exacted knowledge, and so Zim had stepped in many times to correct his human's naive approaches.

However contemptible Dib was to the job, the repair was well underway, but to extend this much control to the human was often unbearable. Zim could not hold back for long, and was squatting down at the ship's undercarriage, holding the axial port one-handed while Dib attached the auxiliary cross-piece. Palsy ruined the composure of his concentration and the limited dexterity of his left hand, and most tasks ended in squealy fits of rage.

When he stood back up after short periods, the world dropped away, and his head felt lighter than air. Flakes of white in abundance smeared his vision, causing him to believe that it was snowing. Dib chaperoned him over to a spare chair, and he reluctantly consented. Realizing he was clenching up, he lifted the claws from his palm to see emerald indents. Now he knew why he always wore gloves.

"I thought you'd be happy to sit back and bark orders at me." That prostrated look of pity was never far behind his words.

He felt the man's stare, and wished for him to just buzz off. "The subdermals need adjusting." He snapped, autumnal eyes gliding away to anyplace else but the present. "Get to it."

"Okay, captain."

Zim's thoughts drifted; not really watching as the human toiled away.

Even when he could not see the sweeping, comely magnetism flowing above the city, he could feel it on his antenna.

Dib and Clara had watched the undulating lights weaving through the dark heavens late on their wedding night as if they'd not noticed it before. In the blue of the day, the pulsing river was harder to see, but the tension that had been climbing into him since the wedding had not disappeared.

"The subdermals are done." The human said as the Irken gradually resurfaced, "What about the condensers on the starboard side?"

"Already replaced." He grunted.

Dib touched the panelling, and part of a condenser fell off. "Are you sure?"

Zim mustered the underlying strength that built walls around his shaky foundations. "I'm just t-testing you."

"I know you were." The young man attempted a weak smile, his eyes revealing deeper pain. Zim would stare back, shoulders as tight as stone.

Dib turned to the subdermal brackets, and began fusing them back together with the propane torch. Iridescent sparks flashed against the visor the human wore over his glasses.

Working on the ship involved insuperable effort, with Dib bending down, or shuffling like a crab under the broad expanse of the ship's underside getting filthy with oil. Every evening, Dib would shamble to the bathroom looking like he'd been stuck up a chimney. Though Zim tried to share the burden of these physical adversities, Dib would not let him, and would either push or patiently carry him away.

Clara overviewed their progress, badgering them with drinks and snacks. She would rest her hands over her growing belly, and watch them with little to no understanding as Zim fervently explained every last detail, the finer math of the ship's functions and the tuned calibrations that linked the computer to its hardware. Sometimes when she popped over, she'd find Zim snoozing on the deck chair with Dib procrastinating over bundles of tubing.

And Dib was a fast learner. Discouraged he could be, hesitating at crucial points; and needing that extra push when alien constituents challenged his knowledge, but as the ship changed from a gutted wreck to a sleek and sophisticated craft, Zim grudgingly noticed the young man's hungering aptitude for it.

"Dib?" He hadn't meant to sound abrasive as he leaned forwards in the chair. "What are you doing?"

The human peeked round from the stern, "I'm... I'm fixing up a unit. There was a lot of scrap, and..."

Zim blocked off his ream of excuses by coming over to inspect it. Behind the cockpit was only ever a small cargo hold, used chiefly for Tak's supplies. Irken ships stored everything seamlessly, making the most of every scrap of space. The sides of the receptacle were sharp and insufferably steep. Instead of a cover it was topped with a flat lid of glass. He would get no closer, and scrambled away so fast that he nearly tripped over his own feet. He swung out a claw to clutch at what was nearest – which happened to be a shelf lined with barbed bolts and spare parts. They jingled musically when the shelf caught his weight.

Dib left the open hatch and stood behind him a little ways to give his anger space.

He didn't turn round. "You did this, _without_ my consent!"

"It's just a precaution."

"It's unnecessary! The cabin provides all the support a pilot needs!"

Dib stood there, lips fumbling around words that wouldn't come.

Zim wondered how much screaming he would need to deliver to get his idiot lackey to take it out. "When I come b-b-back, I expect it removed!" He grabbed the Gir doll and stumbled through the garage opening.

He didn't return to the ship until the evening. True to his worst expectations, Dib had not taken it out.

He was forced to stand at a safe distance. With that _thing_ newly installed, he wanted less to do with the ship and what Dib meant to do with it.

Frugally he passed the insufferable human a few barbed bolts one-handed, and pointed at where they needed to go, sometimes lifting his cast out of habit when he forgot that the arm was inoperable. He leaned on the crutch, watching Dib labour away; the only sounds the wrenching of the spanner, or the shriek of the drill. Sometimes Dib would gaze at the ship as if it was a beast with a mind of its own.

Its completion surprised them both.

One admired the ship silently. The other could not even look at it.

They'd worked at each task as it presented itself, neither of them looking further than that. Zim wanted to keep working on it; to keep the purpose alive, for what else was there? It had been _the_ project. _The_ goal. Now it was finished, and he felt only alarming emptiness.

"Have we really done everything?" Dib asked in a choked voice.

Both their faces were splattered in pinks and blacks from the blood of the ship. "What about the auxiliary boosters?" He snapped a glare his way.

"Done."

"The Core?"

"Recharged." He replied with practised patience.

Zim went to raise his right arm to rub irritably at his temple before realizing he was trying to lift the cast. He looked to the Gir doll sitting on the deck chair. His thin legs shook. Taking a squeaky breath, he spread his claws over the craft's surface - desperately looking for faults, more work begging for unequivocal healing.

The ship's hull was so shiny that it reflected their stupefied expressions. They had painted her dark purple and blue – reflecting the amalgamation of their partnership.

Dib placed the wrench on the shelf. "We did it. Now all we need to do is run some tests and, well, name the ship."

For an unsteady moment the former Elite had the irrepressible urge to rip off a section of hull and tear out the tubing beneath so that work could recommence. He held that rage in check – very nearly letting it out.

Crimson eyes deepening, he lowered his head, feeling none of the relief or buzzing victory he had hoped to find that ordinarily came with accomplishments. There was no euphoria, no satisfaction, least of all the catharsis he had hoped to feel.

Dib watched, face pale behind the splatters of pink, eyes glassy with hurt confusion.

"Good w-work, Dib beast." He whispered as he pushed away from the shiny hull, shoulders as tight as concrete. His reflection was cloaked in the crimson of his uniform.

The Aurora Borealis flittered and snaked above, like a bridge between worlds.

-x-

"You call this a strategy?" He moved the piece without really looking at it, or its placement. His effortlessness, or tedium, had thrown Dib off many times. The human stared down at his units, fingers haplessly rubbing at the stubble on his chin.

Clara watched, her eyes flickering between them, but Zim could sense her distraction. Her hands kept fidgeting, and she was always picking at something, be it an item of clothing, or the bottom of her lip.

The Gir doll was slouched beside her on a cushion.

Dib stared at the army laid out before him, trying to suss Zim's next move. He could see no method behind it, but then, he'd thrown himself into the open on this very basis, only to be pegged back a notch, and worse.

Zim was watching, eyes hooded, chin resting on the palm of upturned claws. His expression was carefully blank, but he could see the invitation in the fuchsia. His smile was appearing at the edges.

"You sure are slow, stink beast. Are you gonna make a move or are we gonna sit here for an eternity?"

"You're just trying to intimidate me." He said, eyes dropping to the pieces displayed before them. "And make me rush. It won't work."

"No use being coy. I always see straight through your plans." His wrist was adorned with a large ' _My Little Pony'_ plaster. Clara had put it on him after ruffling through the medical cabinet. He would not say how he had got scratched.

"I am not being coy!" Dib reached forwards, saw the cunning reflected in those crimson eyes, and dropped back against the chair. They could hear the turret outside when it landed another hit on some unfortunate victim. "When I told you to change the turret's ammo, I meant something neutral, not nitrogen! What am I supposed to do with a frozen mailman and a dog?"

"They make pleasant sculptures."

"And how are _we_ supposed to go outside without adding to your so-called sculptures?"

"You're just going to have to be fast." He said as Dib made his move: bringing the armoured serpent forwards to the centre, and trying not to scratch at his itchy eyes. Zim raised his antenna, and countered with the Imperial wolverine. "Still the child." He said, knocking it off the board.

"You best not be cheating!"

"I never cheat!" He glared back, exposing teeth.

Dib assessed the arena, eyes flickering to the soldiers on his side. _So many pawns to use, to throw into service, and sacrifice. Counter just right and you could save the majority of your army._

He wanted to intimate Zim, goad his recklessness, and force him out into the open. But so far he was unable to provoke the Irken to throw out his best. There was no dementia at play, not when he was focused on the game. The Irken was beating him at every turn, and needling him into corners while his army dominated the ruts and trenches, making an open assault impossible.

Dib didn't know why he was so surprised. Zim had lived this way through war. He would never say what he had been through, what he had seen, and he was very good at deflecting any questions about his past.

As he looked, he saw that there _was_ an opportunity. Zim was so focused on the front that he had forgotten about his rear defences.

"You've left yourself open." Picking up the dire wolf, he coasted it behind the wolverine, and effaced it off the board.

Zim stared, stupefied at the mistake. Dib waited, suspecting the Irken to smack the pieces clear off the board. "Amateur!" He hissed as he took stock of the situation and battlefield.

"My soldiers are strategically placed, Zim. You'll never get them all without scattering your troops. And you can't hide in that trench forever."

The old Elite let slip those teeth again, antenna snapped taut, and Dib tensed, sensing the tip of reversal.

Clara dropped her gaze to her belly, and went; "Oh."

"Clara?" Dib went to get up, visibly alarmed.

"The baby's kicking..." Her hands shyly her belly as if it wasn't quite a part of her. Her episodes of morning sickness had gradually lessened through the days, and Zim had tried to master his distress when all he could do was powerlessly watch her suffer. These 'kicking episodes' came and went with growing frequency, and this also worried him. "Do you want to feel it?" She asked as if this 'kicking' behaviour was normal, and Zim edged back. Was it kicking because it needed to get out?

Dib settled a hand on her broadening midsection and his eyes slowly brightened. A confused smile appeared. "I can feel it!"

Disbelief made the Irken scowl as his eyes flashed between them, sussing trickery. Clara gestured his way. "Give me your hand, honey. It's okay."

Dib was gazing at him in mild reproach. He glanced at his claws, the dents in the palm, and realized why.

"Zim?" Clara asked.

Swallowing, he offered a hand as if she was about to put it into a blender. She took his claws and placed them on her stomach. "Do you feel the baby moving?"

The old Elite made a face as if he had just swallowed something bitter and was about to admit that he felt nothing at all: that she was just crazy when he _did_ feel something. There was a bump beneath his hand, and his autumnal eyes widened at the sensation. Something was moving around in there. It made him think of water, of weightlessness. He remembered the warm tomb of liquid around him before being brought into the world. "I... I can..." He confessed.

He slowly removed his hand.

Life was in there. Her body worked as well as any cryochamber. Nature was a pretty powerful thing.

Her fingers stroked his throat, her other hand cupping his chest, and the caresses produced timid, startled giggles that he could not suppress.

"Is this your sweet spot?" She asked.

"No, no!" His reply was a collection of squeaks before it turned into pain-filled coughs. She stopped at once to rub the place beside his PAK until his breathless chokes softened. Moments like this had him wanting to hide away from them.

Dib looked over at the clock on the mantelpiece and feigned a stretch and a yawn. "It's getting late."

"But... b-but the battle!" He gasped.

"There's always tomorrow, Fudge."

He watched them leave the little table and gather their things. He tried to rouse the bark in his voice to make them stay, but his croaks sounded more pleading than demanding.

"Zim?" Her voice, normally patient and conciliating, sharpened, her eyes holding onto a desperation he did not like. He felt the tension. It hurt. "Can you promise me something?"

He looked to her, trying to determine her intent. "To n-not blow up the house?" He croaked, even though he knew that was not what she was asking.

He had the chance to flee, and allow walls to envelop his mind.

"Clara!" Dib's bark shot through the air as clear as canon blast. "Help me with this."

It took Clara a moment to pull away, and he watched her go with unrelenting tension. They left with the pieces still sprawled mid-game before him. He rose to follow, eyes fetching towards the Gir doll on the sofa. His right antenna picked up the low hum of their voices beyond the doorway, and the broadening scope of his paranoia instantly reasoned that they were talking ill of him. He was still not accustomed to living with others. They moved of their own freewill, their purposes and intentions wholly alien.

He moved closer towards the doorway, positive they were plotting something, only to be surprised to discover that this was not so. There was the rattle of china against silver, the kettle coming to a boil in the kitchen, and a scrape of chair leg on linoleum flooring. They were discussing trivialities that were strangely important to them. He caught himself, wondering why he had been sneaking around in the first place.

 _Why should I... ZIM! ...haunt the outskirts of a life I used to command?_ _Why do I tiptoe around the fringes of a home that is mine?_

He paused beside the mirror in the hallway. He was there in the reflection without the cast and distinction of age lining the eyes. Gloved claws edged into fists. Beneath the reflection was the broken image staring back.

He dived away from the mirror and leant against the wall as much as the PAK allowed, grabbing his head with one hand.

His mind was an overturned scrap yard. There were bits and pieces scattered everywhere, things that might be beyond repair, and some of which could still be salvageable.

He returned to his bedroom, squeezing the Gir doll to his chest with a fierce need. The cat he had employed into his service weaved around his legs, loudly purring. He gently put down the doll to scratch behind its ears.

Even with the curtains snapped tight against the world, ribbons of colour spread across the walls and furnishings like magical fingers. He thought it was the nightlight spreading these silks of color before realizing the tendrils were from the Northern Lights.

The ghostly light illuminated the leavings on his deck of what he'd been working on. Rolls of blueprints had been messily stacked away, pencils and styluses left here and there.

When his eyelids dropped low, the man wearing the fedora was staring down, eyes wolfish and cold.

 _'How can you deal so much damage, and not know about it? Lift off your wig and eye contacts. Let them see what you truly are.'_

Humans had caught flashes of him now and again, and he had providentially got away. But this man carried a lot of the old Dib about him, and there was no fooling a man who could see through the lies and disguises.

His thoughts also helplessly turned to the little girl without meaning to.

He shook his head, unable to stop the grimace.

Why did he care?

Like all human obstacles she was just another passing bit of scenery.

He placed this worry to one side to lay with the others that were inevitably piling up.

The blue token had been cached under his pillow. He drew it out, the metal-badge flashing whites and metallic blues wherever the light touched it. A quick press on its smooth centre extracted a bubble of bright pulsing blue – an electric tapestry that weaved serenely around him. Wherever he happened to step, the aura followed, him always cocooned in its centre. Tapping the device dissolved the barrier and tapping it again made it reappear. It made him think of the chrysalises that had newly covered his caterpillars Big Boy and Hidey.

Zim flipped the token over, trying to rest it on the cast as a mediocre surface so that he could peer at the circuits on the back.

Modifying it wouldn't hurt. The tech was complex, but he expected no less from the Protector.

"Zim, bath!" He could just about hear Clara say from his bedroom door.

His right antenna snapped down from the interruption. "I don't need it! I'm not stinky like you!"

"So you don't want your shoulders massaged?"

"How dare you bribe me!"

As inconvenient as baths were, as soon as he was neck-deep in bubbles, he melted into the soporific heat, the tension running out of him in seconds. The cast kind of bobbed up and down on the steamy surface like some useless appendage. Due to its water-proofed proprieties, he didn't mind dunking it. It was the only time he could be free of its inescapable weight.

The doll was filthy with grass stains, and needed to go in the washing machine, but he would not let it leave his sight.

Very nearly he would doze off, struggling awake just so that he could get out and dry himself off. Again he was watched, like he was some untrustworthy convict looking for escape. They would knock on the door, and not relent until he responded by cursing or throwing cleansing chalk at them.

Soft and sleepy from the bath, Zim slouched into the bed's upraised pillows, eyelids inconveniently dropping down.

Slashes of ethereal pink and green poked through the eyelet of curtain, highlighting the plastic sea of stars bedecking the ceiling.

The guilt for ignoring the Empire's call kept twisting him up inside. He had hoped to contain it, or at least brush it away with the usual apathy, but whenever his walls were down it was there. The chains had fallen off, but he still felt their weight on him.

He shut his eyes and tried to visualise Irkens rushing to war. There was _nothing_ in existence that could threaten Irkenkind, _nothing_ that could rival the Empire's militarism and _nothing_ that could compete against the Armada's artillery. Thousands upon millions of alien species had been massacred, taken or enslaved in coldblooded pursuit for ascendancy and dominion. Perhaps the Irkens had simply wandered off the edge of the universe, and couldn't get back? If only there was a way to _know_.

His peers had grumbled or giggled amongst themselves whenever he passed them. With every task, every duty, he had striven to prove them wrong, but with each new fall hallmarking his failure, they'd sneer and mock him until his very name stirred up laughter within the ranks.

He dragged the doll with him as he shimmied down the little bed-steps to the floor so that he could lean against the bed post, eyes gloomily focusing at the glowing gap in the curtains. His faint blue and pink PAK lights radiated around him, pushing back the discouraging dark. His claws would agitatedly pluck and scrap at the plaster, leaving runes to crisscross around its off-white varnish.

Without the hearing aid he didn't hear the knock at the door His right antenna only flicked upwards when Dib came in, only to see him frown. "Why are you sitting down there?"

Zim's hardened orbs softened at the edges, "I figured... that if I slept like this... I... I wouldn't get so out of breath."

He walked over and crouched to his level. "You can't sleep here all night, space boy."

"Y-Yes I can." He petulantly growled, his distress growing at the strangled sound of his own voice.

"No, you can't. You'll get cold, and you can't risk having a seizure."

"I won't fall for your lies!" A flash of pained frustration made the wrinkles sharpen under his eyes. "Why are _y-you_ here anyway, Dib stink?"

"It's nine o'clock."

"I _know_."

"I need to... to try to..." He looked away, as he often did whenever the nature of the topic arose. It was Clara's job, more accomplished as she was with syringes and measures and drugs. "I need to give it a try, Zim. I won't know if Clara will need to stay overnight at the hospital once she has the baby. And I really should know how to do it." His voice dropped, and he swept round to switch the bedroom light on to hide the waning conviction – and pulled open the drawer to pick out one of many glistening glass vials. Dib slid the new vial into the hypodermic syringe, and tweaked on the end of the plunger to dispense the bubbles. But when he turned to face the watchful Irken, his hands were shaking. "Lean back a little. Roll up your sleeve."

Zim complied, pushing the sleeve back to expose a left arm covered in tiny little half-healed pokes and old needle-sized scars.

The human knelt down; fussed with the strap he tied above the Irken's elbow, and then stared at the needle and at the old pockmarks. The needle caught the glow of the bedside lamp.

"You can't do it, c-can you?" Zim asked softly without the ridicule. His claws scrunched into a fist on his lap.

And Dib still felt like the child. He tried to hide the crack in his voice. "You don't understand how... how hard it is on me."

"Dib creature," the human barely had the courage to look into those autumn eyes. "I do."

He swallowed, but his throat remained dry. "Why is it that I could fight you all day, but I find this so hard?" He put the syringe down just so that he could brace a hand against his wrist, willing the fingers to steady.

"Dib beast." His voice remained soft, his antenna drooping forwards. It only served to bruise the human more. "Hate me, ju-just a little, and you'll find it easier." He released a sigh, knowing that Dib may never find the courage, "You're such a baby. Hand it over. I'll do it."

"You can't. The plaster cast, remember?"

Zim weakly snarled at his forgetfulness. "It goes here, see?" He tried to point a bandaged, half hidden claw at a tiny dark vein running along his left arm - in the joint of his elbow.

"How will know if I've done it right?" He gathered the syringe in his hand.

"You're asking me?" The wrinkles crinkled around his eyes. "You're not as terrible as you think you are."

He aimed at the network of veins and took a deep breath, _now or never,_ and pressed with the tip of the needle. Zim's skin felt as thin as paper. He eased the needle further by another millimetre and pushed hesitantly on the plunger, knowing to never push down all at once.

This fidelity cast a shadow over his heart.

He felt the Irken deliver another sigh as the plunger hit the end, the vial emptying. He eased the needle out, expecting blood to follow. A tiny drop of olive green emerged, and pressing a cotton pad over it stemmed the flow completely.

"S-See? Not such an amateur a-after all."

Dib tried to find the smile even while his throat clenched. He leaned over and hugged him, feeling those thin bones in his arms. He did not want to see their road end - and could not imagine life without him. _Tell me we're always going to be together, Zim._

"Hey! Don't do that!" The alien squealed, tilting away from his touch.

"You let my dad pet you _and_ hug you!" The crack in his voice could not be chased away. "Am I second best now?"

"More like third b-best!"

"Yeah, yeah." He strapped the blood pressure cuff around his arm and waited for it to inflate – listening to the disquieting noises it made before it clicked to measure his blood pressure. It accentuated Zim's pulse until he could feel it spurting weakly down his arm.

The cuff deflated after a moment, and the Irken slouched with relief.

Dib cracked out that weak, tepid smile, and offered him a hand. Zim looked at it and then back at him. Pale green claws, clammy with sweat, grabbed hold, and he lifted himself up. He meandered up the steps and slipped into bed. His stiff left leg had to be more or less pushed into position beneath the blankets.

Dib swabbed the needle with antiseptic before dispensing with the used vial and placed the hypo back into the top drawer for the morning.

"So?" Zim cocked his head at him, his eyelids dropping to achieve this sly look. "Does something magical happen, now that you and this Clara of yours have... engaged in this obligated... contract..."

"Don't hurt your brain, butterball. Try to get some sleep."

"Remove this dumb cast, would you?" Zim squeaked after him tiredly.

Dib hung by the door, looking back. "Not yet, buddy. Try to be patient. Sorry about my sister by the way. At the wedding. I heard she gave you some tough love." He muttered his goodnights as he closed the door, and the heavy silence was back.

"Computer." The weary call was a useless custom, but he could not sleep without saying it. "Lock down the perimeters."

Trying to manage slower breaths as he squeezed the doll tight, he closed his eyes and tried to close off the worries that haunted him, but they resurfaced like the tide, taking him to uneasy depths. The pink vial fell, hitting glass that crisscrossed outwards, spilling him down into the blue. Irkens were falling with him, twisting and turning like leaves caught in the wind.

Tallest Red turned to him, crimson smoke pouring out of his eyes, claws bending in a gesture. When he lifted those claws, a key dangled from the points. He motioned towards the opening door behind him, and when the door opened, there stood the man in black. The fedora's brim cast darkness over the eyes.

A baby was crying behind that door.

"Tick tock." Red swung the key to and fro like a pendulum. With every swing, pain reached in. He went to back away, but his boots sunk into mud. He looked down, flinching when he saw his legs trapped in pools of blood. He was revisited by the scenes of his youth as the black sky filled with clanging colours as galactic ships fired upon galactic ships with eye-burning plasma. He was on the battlefield of Reiam. The taller, stronger Irkens were pushing forwards with all the power the Empire could afford, bulldozing and exterminating their fellow kin with screaming gusto. Tak pushed past him, causing him to fall into the mud.

Unreliable, undersized and disruptive to the cause, he had been pushed back to where he counted for nothing: left to wade through the carnage where the army had come to pass, and where the dead of enemies and allies lay together in a communal grave of twisted limbs and upturned parts.

Someone was running across the mud towards him. Face splattered with blood, Zim lifted his eyes to the human figure, his hope widening with every step that closed the distance. But he could not move. As much as he struggled, the mud pulled him down.

As the clock struck three, Zim came awake as the dream evaporated. Heaving for air, he gazed neurotically around the room, half remembering where he was. Purple light fell through the curtains. "C-Computer?" He called, wishing for that impersonal prognosis; the data that could help him manage a decision.

His nightlight abruptly switched off. The little radio perched on the desk that mumbled with static from the stars had also gone silent. He snapped towards it, shoulders tensing, and eyes shining out of his whitewashed face.

No little lights blinked back at him from his sleeping laptop or computer tower.

 _Power cut?_

He slipped out from under his covers and made his wonky way down the little steps before pulling open the desk drawer. The shaky claws of his one hand clasped the handle of the screwdriver.

His right antenna picked up a trace of movement.

 _Too late._

He swung round, screwdriver held high as he looked into many faces.

Three eyes peered down; their dark forms as tall and as lean as pillars of ebony. Each poised pillar possessed a tapered eye of purple across its forehead in a horizontal slash that shared an impossible intensity, and within and without their eyes gleamed bright in the room as much as in his head. They stood like things inanimate: and more suited to a nightmarish realm. Zim wasn't so sure he'd woken at all.

Long capes seemingly coming from their skin flowed down to the carpet, covering what might have passed for legs and feet. Their heads were thorny crowns that might have been sculptured from metal or bone.

Zim had no idea how to react. Without his computer as his stanchion and advisor he just stood there, overloaded with indecision. His throat worked as he swallowed, knowing he had seconds to do something.

His lower jaw jerked as he made to speak, aware that he looked utterly bedraggled in loose-fitting nightwear.

They stood, motionless, impassive, like an insentient blockade.

He knotted his claws around the screwdriver, unwelcomingly reminded at his poor choice of weapon.

There was a buzzing sensation in his head that was steadily growing uncomfortable.

"Wh-what at are you all standing here for?" He demanded into the silence, ashamed at his shivering. He pointed the screwdriver at them as if it was a gun. "How did you get past Zim-Grade security? H-Have you come to settle a debt? To worship me? M-Maybe?" He gave them a moment to react, but that moment stretched. "If the Armada finds out y-you've infiltrated Irken space... they'll... they'll kill you!"

He looked to them, his glittery eyes flashing between their unified forms.

His better half pushed through the cobwebs of fear. _The adamantine shield, fool!_

Zim staggered for the pillow where it lay.

Moving like a soundless sculpture made of silk, one of them began to lift a hand of long fingers as if to silence him. Zim could only blink, wondering if he should close his eyes, or be a fool and watch.

Any moment now he would wake.

He backed into the wall, lip lifting. "No, NO! Don't come any closer!" The buzzing grew louder, his thoughts began to dissolve.

The black entity raised a hand higher – he raised the screwdriver – and when the hand touched him, his mind tipped away just as the PAK disconnected from his spine.


End file.
